Shades of Grey
by Miri1984
Summary: Aedan Cousland orders Alistair executed and marries Anora in order to Rule Ferelden after the Blight. But plans go awry and sometimes you can't predict the outcomes of your own actions. Rated M for sex and Violence. Darker than most of my fics! Cover Art by Cave-Fatuam
1. Chapter 1

_Ok, I promised myself I would never do this, but this plot came up a week ago and WILL NOT LET ME GO. I'm continuing Fractures, and I'll try not to let it slip by the wayside, but I had to get this out otherwise it might have faded. Thanks to everyone who reads and reviews, I love you all._

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Aedan felt supremely satisfied with the way things were working out. Anora was his, as was the throne. With any luck the whining bastard would be dead before they got to Denerim - he hoped the guards didn't quail in their duties just because an archdemon was on its way to them - and in any case if he wasn't killed by the hangmen the darkspawn would get him. He would arrange for Loghain or Riordan to kill the archdemon - if he was lucky no one else would witness it and he would be able to claim the deed as his own. Not that he necessarily needed that particular accolade - it was already clear to the nobles of Ferelden who was in control. He hoped Loghain would die in the battle. He really didn't need the old Hero hanging around after the Blight interfering with things. Perhaps he should arrange for a little accident to befall the man if by a freak of chance Riordan managed to take down the dragon.

A rather profitable little blight all around, he thought to himself as he made his way back to his room.

He was somewhat, but not entirely surprised to find Morrigan waiting for him. They had stopped sleeping together some time ago - her choice, although he had not protested. She'd become strange after a while. Needy.

"What do you want?" he asked. Not unkindly. She was still an attractive woman. If a dangerous one.

"I have a plan," she said, walking towards him with a seductive sway of her hips. He eyed her appreciatively. "A way out. A loop in your hole."

He allowed himself a small smile. "Get to it," he said. "What?"

"I know what happens when the archdemon dies," she continued. "I know a Grey Warden must be sacrificed, and that sacrifice could be you. I have come to tell you that this does not need to be."

"What do you mean?"

"I offer a way out. A way out for all the Grey Wardens. That there need be no sacrifice."

He cocked his eyebrow and sat on the bed. "Really?" he said. "I'm intrigued. Do go on."

She explained. A sex ritual. A baby. The possibility of a god child. It needn't be him, she said. Loghain would do just as well, if he could convince him.

Part of him was tempted by the offer. To father one of the old gods? But she insisted that she leave. She insisted that she be the one to raise it - control it. He had his suspicions about what she wanted to do with the child - possess it, as her mother had once planned to possess her, probably. Use it, definitely. And there was no real way he could stop her from leaving before the child was born. Keeping her on a leash for nine months? With a blight and Anora and the kingdom to worry about? He suspected it would prove too difficult, even for him.

He refused. She seemed shocked.

"Why are you so surprised?" he said. "Did you think after all this time I _trusted_ you? Alistair had your measure from the beginning, much good it did him."

Her eyes flashed. "You're a fool," she said. "Who's to say Riordan and Loghain aren't killed in the first rush of the horde? What if you _have_ to take the final blow yourself?"

He shrugged. "I know the joining ritual now," he said. "Denerim may fall, but there will be more wardens to take that blow should I choose it. I do not intend to die."

"You won't be given the choice!"

"You say that to me?" He got to his feet and crossed the room to her in two swift strides, taking her neck in his hand and gently squeezing. She did not flinch, simply looked at him, her yellow eyes darkening in anger and full lipped mouth twisted in scorn. "I am in control here. You should have left me in the tower of Ishal, chosen a better target for your schemes. I will not be manipulated by _you."_

She spat in his face. "Control," she said, laughing slightly. He tightened his grip, but her voice was still strong as she continued. "You don't know the meaning of the word. All your petty politicking. You think being married to Anora, executing the son of Maric the _savior_ - you think these things make you powerful? You have no concept of the word. And you will regret making an enemy of me, Aedan Cousland."

"Not if you're dead," he squeezed harder, but she laughed again and he felt the skin under his hands roughen, then change entirely until he found himself holding the fang of her spider form. She freed herself with one kick of her many legs before transforming again - a bird this time - that he was unable to capture before it flew out the only window.

She had left it open - he realised. Part of her must have known he would reject the offer.

Still. It was of no matter. He would go to Loghain and warn him not to admit the witch, no matter what she said. She had no other options.

Tomorrow they would march for Denerim.

* * *

He was cold. It shouldn't have mattered, on top of the other hurts the guards had heaped on him before throwing him into the cell, but for some reason it was the cold that was getting to him the most. They hadn't given him a blanket, or any clothing to replace the gear they'd stripped from him when he was led from the Landsmeet chamber. In his smallclothes he huddled, head ringing from multiple blows arms and fists aching from failed attempts to protect himself. His groin ached where he'd been kicked and blood from two missing teeth filled his mouth over and over again, forcing him to spit every few minutes.

He should have listened to Leliana. To Wynne. He should have left when he had his chance. But he'd never truly believed Aedan to be the bastard he'd proven himself to be. The man would fix him with that damned clear blue stare of his and smile and Alistair would forget what he'd been angry about - allow himself to be convinced it was the right course of action.

Most of the time, it _had _been the right course of action. Alistair wasn't stupid, he knew that wardens needed to do whatever it took to end a blight, and Aedan had done that. He'd saved the circle, sacrificed Isolde to save Connor, supported Bhelen, cured Eamon. But it had taken the death of the elven slaves in the Alienage - sacrificed to fuel Aedan's power - to truly bring it home to him, and by then it was too late.

He didn't know when they were going to execute him. It was possible he would rot in the cells until the blight was defeated. Or not defeated, as the case may be. There was a possibility when they came for him they would be darkspawn or ghouls. But he doubted it. Aedan would defeat the blight, Alistair had confidence in him for that. A blight didn't suit his purposes. You couldn't reason with darkspawn - you couldn't gain profit from them.

At some point he slept. The guards came back and beat him again and the world started to blur at the edges. He hadn't eaten since the day before the landsmeet. They gave him no water. He knew he was delirious when she came to him.

"Shh," she said, stroking his forehead. "Shhh, Alistair. You're safe now."

It was so strange, hearing that voice speaking with tenderness instead of scorn. He was enfolded in her arms and lifted with unnatural, magical strength. The guards were sleeping - or dead - he couldn't tell. She was gentle with him, dressing him in clothing, carrying him until he insisted he could walk, then supporting him through the halls of Fort Drakon. Even in his delirium he could tell something was wrong. The guards were panicking, paying them little attention, although he knew the witch beside him was casting almost constantly as they walked to keep their eyes from him. There was talk of the darkspawn horde, talk of the archdemon...

"They'll be at the gates within a day," he heard one voice say.

"It never went to Redcliffe, the Warden and the Queen will never make it back in time!"

"We'll all be killed!"

When they reached the street he felt Morrigan slump from exertion. He tried to help her as they stumbled together through the streets, this woman he hated, this woman who had saved him. They reached a tavern where she helped him into a bed. She washed him. Cured his wounds. Gave him water and food. But his head would not clear. The fuzziness would not fade. All he knew was the closeness of her - the scent of her surrounded him, the feel of her gentle fingers on his chest, the soothing words she mumbled as her hands caressed him.

"Alistair," she said softly at his ear, and he felt her tongue on his skin, at his neck. "Alistair I'm sorry we let you be taken." He blinked. He never would have thought this woman would be gentle with him. Never would have thought she could make his body respond the way it was.

"Morrigan..." he tried to form the words, tried to catch her hands with his own. But she was deft and they were never where he thought they'd be and _sweet holy Maker _he'd never imagined they'd _ever _be _there._

"Relax," she whispered into his ear. But he was rapidly becoming anything but relaxed as her hands wandered ever further and ever closer.

"What are you _doing?" _he squeaked, blinking rapidly, trying desperately to clear the fuzz from his head.

"I need you, Alistair," she whispered. He managed to focus on her and she was _completely _naked and he suddenly wished he could go back to not knowing what was going on.

"You _hate _me," he said.

"No," she sat back on his shins, breasts glistening with sweat in the candlelight, her dark hair free and loose for the first time he could ever remember, her yellow eyes glittering with desire and power and.. _something else._.. "sometimes we need to protect ourselves from the things we feel, Alistair," she said, running her hands down the sides of his torso. He arched his back involuntarily, conscious - _acutely _conscious of the hardness of his erection, the desperation of his lust for her. For _Morrigan _of all people. Her lips quirked into a more familiar expression. "It seems you too, are harboring thoughts about me you may never have admitted to yourself."

He blushed furiously. "Well, you're... it's not as though.. Maker's breath Morrigan - what do you expect? I wake up from a dungeon cell to a naked woman? I am male after all..."

She laughed. It was a pleasant sound and she looked almost coy, lowering her head until...

Coy was _not _the word to describe what she was doing now. His head hit the pillow behind him hard as his hands moved of their own accord, gripping the headboard of the bed. He let out a groan that nearly became a shriek when she flicked her tongue against him.

"Holy Andraste," he gasped out through gritted teeth. "Please. Stop."

She lifted her head and he couldn't repress the groan of disappointment that escaped his mouth. Panting, he looked into her face, searching for something, anything that would give him a clue as to why she was doing this. But she didn't give him time to say anything. Swifter than he could have imagined possible, she was atop him, mouth claiming his in his first kiss, even as she took his virginity with a sharp push of her hips downwards. He couldn't stop the helpless shout of desire and pleasure that overtook him, couldn't stop the desperate thrusting of his hips against hers as she rode him, couldn't help but glory in the sight of her as she sat up and leaned back, breasts bouncing, pale skin glittering. He gasped and groaned as she moved ever faster, harder, and gripped her hips in his hands as he spilled himself inside her in a white flash of pleasure so intense he thought he'd broken something.

She collapsed on him, gasping for breath. He didn't know what to do - what to say. Hesitantly he brought a hand up and stroked her hair. She lifted her head and smiled at him, a secretive, content smile that made him wonder again at what they'd just done - why they'd done it.

She gently disengaged from him and lay along side him, letting her fingers trail across his chest lightly. "It is done," she said softly. He blinked, feeling too late a surge of power from her that he was unable to counter.

He lost consciousness.

He woke, alone, to a city gone mad. His head was clear as he dressed and armed himself. She had left him his gear - but there was no sign of her other than that and the sharp, stabbing memories he had of their brief passion. Certainly not what he'd expected from his first time with a woman. Certainly not the woman he'd expected, either.

The inn was unattended and there was no one to give his money to. The streets were chaos - people fleeing to the docks with nothing but the clothes on their backs. He wondered if he should bother to do the same. He could stay, he supposed, and fight the darkspawn horde. He could try to find and kill the archdemon. But that was, he thought bitterly, Aedan's job now. He'd rejected the wardens before they'd thrown him in prison. He didn't want to be part of an order that numbered Loghain in its ranks. Or Aedan for that matter.

He would flee, he decided. If the blight was defeated and he was sighted in Ferelden they would undoubtably execute him. Anora wouldn't tolerate his presence. And if the blight _wasn't _defeated - well then he could find the rest of the wardens and join the fight for the rest of Thedas. Ferelden would fall, he knew, but he found he couldn't bring himself to care. Perhaps in a week he would examine that feeling and be shamed and full of self-loathing, but for now Ferelden was _Aedan's _and _Anora's. _It had never given him anything. From the first moment he'd been rejected, by his father, by Eamon. Only Duncan had ever accepted him and now his murderer was...

He would head for the Free Marches - he'd heard there was always work for a good sword arm there. He would live - to spite them, Loghain, Aedan, Morrigan. Fill out the rest of his twenty-eight years with meaningless toil until the taint took him.

Damn them all.

* * *

She watched as they fought through the streets of Denerim, the golem, the dwarf, the elf and the man. The final four who could stand to be with him. He had no healer, but the potions she and Wynne had spent so many nights concocting for him sustained him, as did the unnatural vitality given him by the elven slaves, the potion of Avernus and whatever other means the man had grasped when she hadn't been with him.

She admired him, she had to acknowledge it. She would have preferred the child in her belly to be his, and not the blond boy's, although Alistair had his good points. She smiled to remember them. Indeed, their encounter had been far more pleasurable than she'd anticipated. The pent up sexual energy of the man - a _virgin _of all things - had made the ritual if anything _more _powerful than it would have been had she performed it with Aedan.

And she had to remind herself that the soul would not be of either of these men. Only the body. And she suspected that the body would not be important in the long run. Still, it's form should be pleasing.

She was subtle, in the help she gave the party. They had to reach the roof of Fort Drakon. She even tried to help Riordan - it would have been convenient to have the archdemon die in flight - Riordan's death would not be questioned and her secret would be safe.

In the end he was right, of course. He made Loghain take the final blow. It was not difficult, to burst the man's heart in his chest as he struck the blow. He was not expecting a magical attack, and he had no natural defense. No one would question it.

The flight in hawk form from Redcliffe - the extraction of Alistair and the dark ritual had left her dangerously drained, but she could not afford to linger and as soon as she was certain the Hero of River Dane no longer drew breath, she again transformed and flew from the rooftop, making her way west and north. Her task was done, but her work was not finished. Not yet.


	2. Chapter 2

_Wow! So many reviews for my first chapter! You guys know how to motivate a girl to keep writing! Thank you so much. I usually respond individually to reviews but this time round it was like confetti in my inbox so I thought I'd better send a general shout out to all of you, you are awesome and as always I'm thrilled to bits that so many people are reading. I hope you enjoy the rest!_

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He hated ships. He was violently ill the whole way to Kirkwall, little use to himself or anyone else. He had only the energy to clutch his sword and shield - Duncan's shield, although he'd had the presence of mind to cover the crest - to him whenever someone came near. The ship had taken him, mistaking him for a noble, he supposed, with his fine armour, thinking they would be rewarded by whatever family he had once the Blight was over. He didn't disabuse them of the notion, even though the man he used to be would have felt guilty.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting on the deck, amongst refugees as sick as he was in pathetic slumps, when the sound of his name roused him from his nausea. A familiar voice, filled with compassion. Not the voice he'd first thought, although he couldn't be sure he was grateful that it wasn't.

"Alistair?" She knelt beside him, dressed in her leathers, her bow on her back. Sure and steady on her feet even in the rocking waters.

Leliana.

"They said you'd been executed!" she exclaimed, her beautiful face concerned and overjoyed at the same time.

"I was," he said dully.

Her face darkened, blue eyes puzzled. "How did you escape?" she asked. He couldn't stop the short bark of a laugh that spilled from him.

"You'll _never _believe me," he said, thinking suddenly of the feel of dark strands of hair sweeping his naked chest, rocking hips and gasping cries. He blinked to dispel the imagery. This was _Leliana. _"What are you doing here?"

She looked away from him, more troubled again. "Going home," she said softly. "There is nothing left in Ferelden for me. Marjolaine is dead and I do not have to hide any more."

"Marjolaine? You found her then?"

She snorted with laughter. "She tried to have me killed. When I left you at Haven I was making my way to Denerim and they ambushed me. I was lucky. The ringleader told me where she was."

"You killed her?"

Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. "Yes. I killed her."

_Good for you, _he thought. _If only I'd managed to do the same to Loghain. _His hands twitched as he thought of the traitor - Grey Warden now, or dead in the joining. He wasn't sure if he cared which. Her blue eyes were studying him again. "I don't suppose you have any plans for where you intend to go?" she asked.

He shrugged. "It depends on the Blight," he said. "The wardens won't have me - if they find out what I did. If Aedan," he spat the name, "and his new warden don't manage to kill the archdemon I should be able to rejoin the order. If I want to."

"What do you mean, they won't have you?"

He chuckled bitterly. He'd forgotten she wasn't there to see him humiliate himself. "I denounced them. Forswore myself. When Aedan made Loghain one of us.. I... I lost it, Lelli. I couldn't fight with them any more."

She looked grim. "Alistair, you made the right choice. Aedan was never worthy to be a warden."

His fist clenched and he pounded the deck. "Why didn't I listen to you earlier?"

She reached out a delicate hand and took his. "Alistair, you had a duty. The rest of us... we joined him because we felt we could help. You... you swore an oath."

"Which I broke as soon as I didn't get my way," he pointed out, pulling his hand free and running it through his hair. "Maker, Lelli, I don't even know if I'm angry for not leaving earlier or for leaving at all. It didn't matter when I was going to be killed. Nothing mattered then.. but then she came and rescued me and now..."

"She?"

He found himself blushing. "Morrigan," he said.

Lelli sat back on her heels, shock on her face. _"Morrigan _rescued you?"

He nodded. "She came on the second day. Lifted me right out of the cell. Carried me to an inn..." _and... and left._

_"Why?" _

He shrugged. He didn't know. He certainly didn't think - now - that she'd been suddenly overcome with lust for him. There had to be some other reason why she'd abandoned Aedan. The two of them had been lovers - if the end of that relationship hadn't been enough to drive her away...

"I don't know, Lelli," he was astonished to find his voice choking him. Unshod tears were gathering behind his eyes and he blinked angrily. He had cried, when the wardens had been defeated at Ostagar. Aedan had mocked him for it often enough. But the white hot rage that had been ignited when Riordan suggested sparing Loghain had kept him from weeping in the dungeons and now, faced with Leliana - her quiet concern - he felt that rage seeping away from him. He fought to keep hold of it. He needed it to continue. "I don't know," he repeated, softly, gripping the hilt of his sword even more tightly.

"Aedan will destroy the archdemon," Leliana said, looking away out over the water. "I know he will."

"Your vision?" Alistair said, hating the cruelty in his tone, but not able to stop it. She frowned at him, but moved to sit cross legged on the deck in front of him. The sun was setting, the red rays glinting in her hair, leaving her face mostly in shadow.

"The Maker wanted me to accompany him for a reason," she said finally. "Perhaps he wanted me to stop him. Perhaps he wanted me to stop what happened at the ashes. I... I failed at that. But whatever I may think of him.."

"He has what it takes," Alistair finished for her. She nodded and dropped her head, studying the leather of her boot. "What will you do in Orlais?" he asked her.

"I...," she opened and closed her hands, before raising her head and fixing him with a sad smile. "To be honest I do not know," she said. "I have no family there any more. The people who knew me... I am not the same woman I was in Orlais. I simply wanted to be away from Ferelden."

"I know the feeling."

"It is good to see you, Alistair," she said then. "I am very happy they did not manage to kill you."

"I'm not sure I am," he said. Her face fell and she leant forward to touch his knee.

"Perhaps we should travel together, no? For a time?" she said. "Until we find a place... or something that will give us a purpose?"

"Are you hoping the Maker will speak to you again?" he said bluntly. She winced, pulling back her hand, and he regretted the words. Leliana had always been kind to him and he repaid it with insults. "I'm sorry, Lelli," he said. "I'm just.. everything has been ripped away again. It seems to happen all the time. I just need to find my feet."

"We both do," she said earnestly. He laughed a little at that and was rewarded by her old, sunny smile.

"So will you teach me to be a bard?" he said, trying for a jest.

The smile grew. "Oh, Alistair, you really think, with that physique of yours, that you are suited to sneaking around hallways in the dead of night?"

He looked down at his chest, encased in gleaming silverite. "Not subtle enough for you?" he said, quirking an eyebrow.

"It suits you, Alistair. But you are no bard." She sighed heavily. "Neither am I any longer. Court intrigue seems so petty to me now. No," she put her hands on her knees, decisively. "No, Alistair, we will find a place for ourselves. If not in Orlais, then somewhere else. If you wish to rejoin the wardens I will accompany you. Perhaps they will recruit me?"

"Lelli... I wouldn't..."

She laughed, her normal, silvery laugh, but it was tinged with bitterness. "You think you could be a bard, but I could not be a warden?"

"You'd make a magnificent warden," he said forcefully. _Far better than me, _he thought. "But I don't think I will be able to go back. Not yet any way. Not until.." _Aedan's dead. _

She nodded. "Very well. But we are skilled, are we not? If there is not work for an archer and a swordsman across the ocean the world has become a very different place in a very short time."

He nodded as she got to her feet. She held out a hand to help him up and he took it and stood, his nausea gone.

He had nothing save the arms and armour on his back, but at least now he was no longer alone.

* * *

They were attacked on the way to Kirkwall. The caravan master had been right to hire mercenaries, although Nate privately thought he could have handled these bandits had he been forced - they were unskilled and badly armoured. His bow took down three before they were even able to reach the carriage. The other archer - he didn't know her name but admired her skill, took down two more and the warrior with the heavy plate dispatched the final two handily. They were skilled, these two, which explained their hefty fee. The caravan master said he always used them and they gave him a discount for the regular work. Paying extra for only two guards was cheaper in the long run than paying for four or five.

Nathaniel despised mercenaries, usually, but this pair were intriguing. Their gear was top notch - far more expensive than mercenaries could usually afford. The woman's bow especially fascinated him - it looked a match to his grandfather's and she handled almost as well as the old man had. With the news of his father's death and the lack of detail surrounding it Nate was struck suddenly how useful having armed and skilled companions could be for him on the trip back to Amaranthine and he found a way to approach the two of them that night in camp.

They were not lovers, although it puzzled him slightly, considering the close bond between them. The woman was older than the man, he thought, although not by much, and there were times when the usually sunny expression of the man clouded so deeply and ferociously that he wondered at how many years he must have lived. They were beautiful, too, with a dangerous beauty that spoke of battles and hardship and hurt. That evening, as he approached them, the woman was pulling a shirt over her head after washing and he saw the livid marks of old lash wounds across her back. He winced in sympathy, his fingers wanting to touch similar marks of his own, given to him by his father years back. He knew the pain and shame of being flogged, and wondered what a woman could have done to earn such.

As he approached the man looked up warily from sharpening his blade. There was something familiar about the face - he'd thought so the first time he saw him - but he couldn't place it.

"You're the noble we're guarding?" the man asked shortly. He was from Ferelden, Nathaniel noted, and well educated, with that accent. Interesting.

Nate nodded in response to the man's query, although he frowned at the surliness of the tone. "You fought with skill, back there," he said. "I wanted to thank the two of you."

The woman looked up and smiled at him. "I almost believe we were not needed," she said, and her lilting accent marked her as Orlesian. "You handle a bow with much skill, my lord."

He shrugged. "Without you both, I should have needed to handle my blades just as well," he said. "Marcus said he uses you whenever he rides this route. Are there many such attacks?"

"More since the Blight," the man said. "Mostly Fereldens who fled Denerim, I think. They're desperate enough."

The woman nodded in agreement.

"I am on my way back to Ferelden," he said. "I was wondering if you would like to accompany me? I know I will have need of skilled men once I reach my family's estate."

"Ferelden isn't a good place for us," the man said, turning his attention back to his sword, dismissing Nate as though he didn't exist. The woman, though, was looking at him curiously.

"Your family's estate?" she asked.

"I am Nathaniel Howe," he said. "Arl of Amaranthine, now, I should think. Considering my father's demise."

The man's hands were suddenly stilled and his head shot up to fix Nate with an unreadable glare. _"Howe?"_ he asked.

"Yes."

The man's mouth was pressed into a line as though he wished to laugh. He continued to hold Nate's gaze appraisingly and Nate suddenly felt uncomfortable, as though he had something to be ashamed of. "You find something amusing?" he said, a sneer forming on his lips. An eyebrow twitched and the man glanced at his companion.

"Not exactly," the man said. "Although I very much doubt when you get to Ferelden you'll find Amaranthine ready to welcome you with open arms."

"You know something of my father's death?" Nate said then.

"You don't know how he died?" the man asked. "What news did you have?"

"A messenger from my father's estate reached me a week ago," Nathaniel said. "All he told me was that my father was dead in Denerim. I assumed he had died in the Blight. You're telling me that is not the case?"

The man's lips twisted in what Nate thought was probably sympathy. "I'm afraid not."

The woman shifted and patted the log she was sitting on. "Please," she said. "Sit with us. My name is Leliana. This is... Rory. We were in Ferelden when your father was killed."

The man.. Rory.. looked away, his face twisting again as though he wanted to laugh. Nathaniel sat next to the woman - Leliana - and placed his hands between his knees. "Please," he said. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"Did you hear what he did to the Couslands?" Rory asked him. Nate shook his head.

"Rumours, only. The Couslands were in collusion with the Orlesians. They were attacked and killed."

"More or less," Rory said. "Although I don't know how true the stories about the Orlesian connections were. Your father's men attacked Highever.. what?" he looked at Leliana, who shrugged. "Two years ago? Maybe a bit more than that. Killed everyone save for the youngest - Aedan."

"The man who is now married to Queen Anora?"

Rory nodded. "Oh, and Fergus Cousland. He escaped as well, although we left Ferelden before we found out whether he was alive or not."

"Aedan Cousland became a warden.." Leliana continued. Nathaniel waved a hand impatiently - "you know this?" she smiled. "How could you not. All of Thedas talks of how he defeated the blight. In any case, he killed your father. In Denerim."

"In revenge, then?" Nathaniel said, his stomach dropping.

Rory's eyes glinted. "Yes," he said. "It was certainly a revenge killing. But Ser Howe - you must understand - your father's actions against Highever and his alliance with... Loghain.." the man spat the word out as though it pained him... "...branded him a traitor. Your lands were stripped and given to the Grey Wardens. We found that out recently. If you go home you will be treated as a traitor as well."

Nathaniel sat dumbly for a few minutes. His father had never been a kind man. But a traitor to Ferelden? A murderer?

Leliana's eyes were full of sympathy.

"You said you weren't welcome in Ferelden any longer," Nathaniel said after a pause. "Does that mean you were also sympathetic to Loghain?"

Rory's face contorted in anger and he spat to the side. "No," he said forcefully. Something about the face - the expression suddenly clicked in Nathaniel's mind and he stood.

"You were with him, weren't you?" Nathaniel said. "I recognise you now. You look just like Cailan. Maric's bastard - the other Grey Warden."

Rory jumped to his feet, reaching for his shield, blade at the ready. Leliana did the same, however, and she was quicker than both of them, standing between them with both arms out. "Stop," she said. "Stop it. Both of you." They stood facing each other, Nathaniel's hand on his dagger, Rory's stance ready for battle.

"Alistair," Leliana hissed. "You will gain nothing from this man's death." The blond man relaxed a little then, although Nathaniel noticed his hand was still twitching on his sword. "Believe me," Leliana said, turning to Nathaniel, "we have no love for the man who killed your father. Or Loghain for that matter."

"I had very little love for your father either," Rory... no, what had she called him? Alistair said wryly. "Believe me, he was _not _a nice man."

"Perhaps..." Leliana continued, still trying to make peace between the two of them. "Perhaps we could tell you the whole story."

Alistair looked at her, cocking an eyebrow. "He's a Howe, Leliana."

"Yes," she said, her eyes twinkling. "And _you _are a Theirin. Interesting how these things shape you, is it not?"

The man laughed, a bitter sound at first, although it seemed to lighten as he looked at Nathaniel until another person - younger, softer, shone through. "Why not," he said finally. "Perhaps our version can be made into a song to counter whatever the bards in Ferelden are singing these days. What do you think, Leliana?"

She smiled at him fondly, and motioned for them all to sit. "It's a long tale," she warned Nathaniel. He shrugged.

"It seems I am no longer in a hurry," he said simply. She laughed, and began.


	3. Chapter 3

Aedan crumpled the letter in his fist in a fit of anger. This was not what he wanted to hear, not now, not so soon after the wedding. The Orlesian wardens were settling at Amaranthine and he had no time to train and mold a suitable Ferelden commander for the order. Weisshaupt had offered him an Orlesian but he had politely refused - it would be ridiculous, and possibly dangerous, to let an Orlesian rule the Wardens in Ferelden - especially given Anora's remarkably stupid idea to let the wardens hold the title of Arl. He had bitten his tongue when she'd given that proclamation despite sorely wanting to take her aside and lecture her. True, it had been a popular decision and she needed to secure her support base, but he would have found some other way to reward the order of which he was so reluctantly a member.

He would have to go himself. It rankled. Anora was too competent and the decisions she made were not always aligned with his interests. Still, better he sort out the Warden business quickly and return before anything too important happened.

There was a knock at his door and he sighed heavily. "Come in," he said.

Eamon entered. Aedan's lip twisted in dislike. The man had been useful, in his own way, since the Landsmeet, but Aedan knew he resented his treatment of Alistair. Aedan hadn't bothered to point out that the Arl had hardly done the best by the gormless boy. Truly it was the old man's fault he'd turned out as useless as he was.

And now he was dead.

"Is there a problem, Eamon?" Aedan said.

"You could say that," he replied, taking the chair in front of Aedan's desk. "There's trouble in the Bannorn. The minor banns are speaking of rebellion."

Aedan snorted. "Not a good time," he said. "I've just heard from Weisshaupt. The Orlesian wardens are arriving in less than a month."

Eamon raised his eyebrows. "Have they offered a Commander?"

"Yes. I turned them down. I'm going to have to take command there myself - at least until I can find a suitable Ferelden warden to take my place."

Eamon looked away but not before Aedan caught a flash of relief in his face. "Well, having you in Command rather than an Orlesian might calm some of the rumours and unrest in the Bannorn. But I think Anora will need to travel there in any case."

"She can deal with them, I'm certain," Aedan said. He'd have to brief her - try to convince her not to overstep herself with any promises. "I need to travel to Soldier's Peak before I go to Amaranthine. You'll need to act as regent while Anora and I are gone."

"Why Soldier's Peak?" Eamon asked.

Aedan frowned at him. He had no intention of telling the man why he needed to speak with Avernus - indeed he had not told anybody outside the original party that the mage still lived. But he would not live with a death sentence over his head and he knew the warden mage had ways of delaying the onset of the taint. He needed to find out what the old man needed to continue his research.

"We used it as a drop point for spare equipment during the Blight," Aedan said simply. "There are a few things still there that might be helpful to the wardens. And there was a very talented smith there. I need to speak to him about a sword I had him make."

Eamon seemed to find the explanation satisfactory.

That night he reached the royal suite to find Anora waiting for him, her golden hair unbound to her waist, sitting at her dressing table. He moved up behind her and gathered the gold strands in his hands, running his fingers through them. She leaned her head back to his touch and he smiled.

"I have some bad news," he said, and explained that he'd be leaving for Amaranthine in a week. She turned on her chair and raised an eyebrow at him.

"So you're leaving me to deal with the trouble in the Bannorn?"

He took her hand, smiling tenderly. "I know you can handle it," he said. "I'm sorry, my love. This is warden business. You know how the nobles and the common folk will react if we put an Orlesian Commander in control of an Arling."

She smiled back at him and nodded, standing up and moving into his embrace. "True. But we've only just been married... and I had hoped..."

He knew what she wanted. A child. They needed to conceive one. She was older than him by seven years - there was a chance time was running out for her. He also hadn't told her about the Grey Warden's difficulty with fertility. He was hoping Avernus could help there, also. He would not leave Ferelden without an heir of his own blood.

From the rumours about her marriage to Cailan he had presumed Anora was barren. This hadn't bothered him overly much when he pushed for their marriage - there were plenty of other women who would bed him, plenty of opportunities to sire a bastard. They could even arrange a little subterfuge to make it look as though the child was hers, if it was necessary. However, her distinct lack of experience and pleasure in the act of love had revised his opinion. She was no virgin, but it was perfectly obvious that her previous husband had spent little time in her bed. Although he preferred his women with more experience, it had been somewhat pleasant, awakening her sexual nature, and he looked forward to introducing some of his more exotic tastes.

He cupped her chin in his hand. "We shall have to make the most of this week then," he said softly, enjoying the delicate pink flush that spread across her cheek.

* * *

He took no one with him save a single guard on the way to Soldier's Peak. Eamon nearly had a fit at his lack of escort, but Aedan was not widely recognised outside of Denerim, and he preferred to keep his movements as unknown as possible. There were people who resented his rise to power - despite the end of the Blight. People who muttered that the Theirin line should have been maintained. He could only thank the Maker that Alistair had been killed as requested, else the rebellious amongst his subjects would have something to rally around. As it was, they were simply voices in the dark.

He left his guard camped at the entrance to the Peak, although the man took some convincing. At the fortress he was met by Levi and his brother Mikhael, who greeted him civilly enough. Levi hadn't been pleased at his decision to spare Avernus and let him continue his research, but he was happy enough to trade with him, and his brother was still grateful for letting him work with the star metal he had made. He knew there was some of the metal left, and he wished Mikhael to make a pair of daggers to match his sword.

He spent a small amount of time negotiating with Mikhael before making his way into the keep. They'd not bothered to clear the interior - ghosts and spirits still haunted the place, making it not particularly comfortable for accommodation. The Dryden brothers slept in one of the guard towers at the entrance to the keep.

Avernus was in his tower, bent over his worktable. He looked up as Aedan entered. "You're back," he said shortly.

"As you see, Avernus," Aedan replied, smiling slightly. "How goes your research?"

"Abysmally," he said. "I have no subjects to work with. I can get nowhere."

"I am on my way to meet up with the new Orlesian Wardens," Aedan said. "Would it help if I sent a few to you? For research purposes?"

Avernus lifted an eyebrow. "You would provide me with human subjects?"

"Only those that I think you could use," Aedan said. "Perhaps a few wardens close to the Calling? There are some among us who would prefer not to go to the deep roads."

"You think Weisshaupt will not notice this?"

"I would send them to you one at at time. You would need to be discreet, obviously."

The old mage snorted. "More subjects would be useful," he said. "But I'll need young as well as old. One every couple of months should do."

It would take some arranging - he'd have to make sure the other wardens didn't suspect what was happening to those he sent to Avernus.

"I'll keep you informed. In the meantime, have you made any progress with the other matter I wrote to you about?"

The old mage raised his eyebrows. "Mmm. That was an interesting request. Most wardens wish to avoid the complications involved in children."

"Most wardens aren't married to the Queen."

"True. Still. I believe you are young enough in the taint for it not to be much of a problem. If you were female - it might be more difficult. If your queen hasn't conceived within the year, come back to me and I will see what I can do."

Aedan sighed. He'd hoped for something more definite than a vague promise in that regard, but at least the old mage was trying.

"I'll do my best with your subjects, Avernus," he said. "Keep well."

The mage ignored him and went back to his work.

Aedan made his way back to where his guard was camped to find the stupid man had been killed by wolves. Truly, he was surrounded by incompetents. He would make the trip to Amaranthine on his own.

Really, in Ferelden these days, if you wanted anything done you had to do it yourself.


	4. Chapter 4

She arrived at their camp in the late summer. Usually the hunters would have shot her on sight - but given she was obviously a mage, and obviously very heavily pregnant, they observed her instead, hoping she would bypass the camp. Keeper Xanthi understood their reluctance to kill the woman. When she was brought before her in her tent, dark head tilted proudly, belly jutting forward, she could feel the power emanating from the woman. Perhaps, had the hunters chosen to take the shot, it would have missed. Or worse.

Still, she had trespassed on Dalish land, and the punishment was usually severe.

"You are with child," the Keeper said, "and as such we cannot kill you, as our laws dictate. We shall escort you off our land with a warning not to return. Another such appearance and not even your pregnancy will save you from my hunters' arrows."

"I have a request," the woman said. Her Antivan was precise, but heavily accented. Not her native tongue, then, Xanthi noted. The Keeper nodded shortly, indicated that she would hear the woman. "As you can see, I am with child," she said. "I ask to stay with your clan until the child is born."

Xanthi snorted. "Why should I grant this request, shem?"

"In return, I shall teach your keepers the art of shapeshifting."

Xanthi's eyebrow shot up. She knew some of the southern Ferelden clans still practiced that particular magic, but they were closemouthed about it and would not share the skill with their Antivan brethren.

"How is it that you, a human, know this magic? I understood it to be lost."

"My mother taught me," the woman said. "She may be known to you. Flemeth, of the Kocari Wilds. I believe the Dalish around her called her the Woman of Many Years."

Xanthi sat back on her heels. "You speak the name of a legend," she said. "A witch out of children's tales. Not a real person."

The woman gave a bitter laugh. "I assure you, she is... was.. very real. _She _is the one who kept the talent alive amongst the southern Dalish."

"You speak of her as though she is no more."

A satisfied smile spread across the woman's face. "She is dead," she said. "And I have inherited her powers, and her knowledge. I offer it to you and your clan, in exchange for safe harbour, and help with the birthing of my child."

Xanthi pressed her lips together. "I will consider it," she said, and waved a hand. Two hunters approached. "See that she is housed and fed, but do not let her wander the camp," she said in Dalish. "I shall give you my answer tomorrow," she said in Antivan, turning back to the woman. "What are you called?"

"Morrigan."

Xanthi nodded. "I am Xanthi. You will be fed, and housed for the evening, but also guarded. Do not attempt to leave the tent you are assigned. When you were faced with only my hunters perhaps you might have been able to best them, but I have three apprentices in camp and we shall all be watching you.

The woman's shoulders slumped a little at the news she would be fed and housed, and Xanthi's keen eyes caught a hint of relief in her expression. She had been traveling long, Xanthi guessed, and the prospect of rest and food was enough to crack some of her proud facade. She was pleased. It meant the woman was not quite so cold as she'd at first thought. Or as strong.

She would take the offer, she thought as the woman left. Shapeshifting would give their keepers even more power to avoid the Antivan shems and protect their land. There was no need to let the woman know that immediately however.

She had a hunter call her apprentices to her. They would need to sort out the care that the woman needed, as well as who would be best suited to learn the shapeshifting magic. There was much to be done and not much time to do it in, judging from the size of the woman. Xanthi had little experience with human women and childbirth, but a Dalish that big would be close to eight months along. They might not have a lot of time.

* * *

The pain was bearable - at least at first. What was insufferable was the feeling of helplessness. She was forced to put her trust in the Keeper - Xanthi - and although she had respect for the woman and her power, she was not used to being so out of control.

They had set up the tent for the birthing. Hot water. Soft deerskins. A stool she was supposed to sit on to birth the child. At present she was walking around, it felt better than being still, but she guessed eventually she would need to take the weight off her feet.

"I don't understand why you can't use healing magic to stop the pain," she said shortly. Not for the first time.

Xanthi sighed and Morrigan cursed the weakness that had prompted her to ask. "As I have already explained, Morrigan, you need to be able to feel the contractions and magic will weaken them so they are not as effective. You must think of the pain as something good rather than something bad. Each time you are struck with it, your child is closer to being born."

She grunted, pressing her hands into the small of her back as another contraction came. "How long?" she asked. She suspected the Keeper was trying not to laugh at her, and resisted the urge to blast her with lightning.

"There's no real way of knowing, I'm afraid," Xanthi said. "Although you are young, and fit and healthy. It shouldn't be too long. The baby should be born before dawn."

Morrigan's face crumpled. "Before _dawn? _It's only mid afternoon!"

"I suppose it's not the time to tell you that my sister's first labour took three days?"

"Bah! Now you are simply tormenting me."

Xanthi chuckled. "Good. Focus on other things. Not the pain. It will make a difference."

Morrigan waved a hand and turned her back on the woman. She had sought refuge with the Dalish because she was not stupid enough to attempt a birth on her own. She knew complications could arise that would kill not only the babe, but also the mother, and medical care outside the major cities left a lot to be desired. The Dalish were a logical choice, especially considering her mother's prior relationship with the tribes in the Kocari Wilds. But she was not stupid enough to tempt Aedan with her presence in Ferelden, not now - possibly not ever. Much as it rankled to leave the arrogant man alone with his ambitions and his kingdom, she had other plans that did not involve being hung as a malificar.

She hoped leaving Alistair alive would set a thorn in the man's side eventually. The boy was too foolish not to want to take revenge. She would be satisfied to hear of Aedan's death at the hands of the former templar. Not as satisfied as she would have been had she dealt the killing blow herself, but satisfied nonetheless.

Another contraction wracked her body and she tried to breathe through it as the Keeper had suggested. It helped, but she wondered how much worse they would get before the end.

Eight hours later she was retching into a wooden bowl. "No one ever told me childbirth would mean surrendering all of my dignity," she said when she had control of her vocal chords again. She had vomited, pleaded, screamed and writhed more in the last few hours than she had ever done in her life, and her life had been full of pain of one kind or another. It was the relentless wave after wave after wave of hurt that was wearing her down.

"You are nearly there, Morrigan," the Keeper said, her voice not leaving the calm register it had kept the entire time. "You're feeling sick because your baby is moving down the canal. An hour, maybe less, and you will hold it in your arms."

Morrigan gritted her teeth and nodded, concentrating with all her might. Once she was able to push, it was better. To be able to do something with the pain rather than just suffer through it made it easier.

"Easy now," the Keeper said. "You don't want to tear."

When she finally pushed out the baby, she felt like she had never done anything as difficult in her entire life. Not even the most draining spell - or the longest battle, had ever taken so much out of her. Xanthi was moving rapidly at her feet, doing something Morrigan could not see. She stood eventually, holding a naked, squalling infant in her arms, covered in white muck and blood, still attached to Morrigan. The keeper passed her - and it was a _her, _Morrigan was quite relieved to see - to Morrigan, who took her and laid her on her naked stomach.

She spent the next little while looking at her daughter in wonder. She did not feel an immediate rush of love for the child, more like a sense of achievement - a job well done. Her body had performed a task and performed it well. It wasn't until the small head started nosing its' way towards her breast that she felt anything like affection for the life she held, and when the small mouth opened and latched itself to her she felt a strong surge of an emotion that she could not at first name.

"Good," Xanthi's voice came. "If she nurses, the afterbirth will come quicker. Now, Morrigan, one last bit of effort."

An hour later Morrigan and the child were settled on a cot piled high with skins, cleaned as much as they could be.

"Are you going to tell me who the father is?" Xanthi said as she packed herbs back into their packets and folded cloths.

Morrigan snorted. "Why on earth would it matter?" she said.

"Because that child has elven blood," she said simply. "I would like to know if he was Dalish."

Morrigan's head shot up and she fixed Xanthi with a glare. "Elven blood?" she said. "Are you certain?"

The keeper nodded. "She's human," she said. "As are all children with at least one human parent. But there are ways of detecting it. Are you saying the father _wasn't _an elf?"

"Most certainly not," Morrigan said, thinking of Alistair - his big, clumsy, idiotic bumbling. So, so far away from Zevran's quite stealth and grace.

Xanthi shrugged. "He could have been half elvish though?"

"From what you have said, any of us could be," Morrigan replied. "Although I was told he knew who both of his parents were." Morrigan pursed her lips and grinned, thinking of Goldanna in Denerim. Not his sister at all, it would seem. "It would explain a few things, though, if he were. How delicious for the poor boy."

"There is magic in this child as well," Xanthi said. "But that is to be expected, given your own powers."

Morrigan stroked her daughter's head, feeling the softness of the thin hair, the smoothness of the skin. "Indeed," she said. The child's eyes opened - indeterminate blue, like so many newborns. Would they change to her own yellow? Or Alistair's hazel? There was no hint of knowledge or power in the gaze her child fixed on Morrigan, but she felt herself shiver in anticipation of what was to come.

* * *

Alistair sat up in a tangle of blankets and cold sweat. _Maker's breath. _No archdemon or darkspawn had ever made him so unsettled. The vision of Morrigan and the child had been so clear he could have sworn he could smell the elfroot tincture the Dalish woman had been using - taste the woodsmoke on the air.

_Because that child has elven blood..._

He ran his fingers through his hair, long past his jawline now, and looked to see if anyone else had noticed his thrashing. Leliana and he were back guarding caravans on the Imperial Highway, having agreed with Nathaniel it would be best if they left the Free Marches, at least until he'd had time to discover the full story at Amaranthine. His watch must be close, considering the height of the moon and the position of the stars. Not much point in going back to sleep, not that he could, with the vision running through his head.

It was a little over nine months since Morrigan had rescued him. Certainly enough time for her to have a child. _His daughter, _he thought. Was that what she had wanted? A child? It seemed a little extreme, to go through so much in order to have _his _child - especially given her opinion of him.

Why would he dream of it, if it weren't true? He certainly hadn't been worried about _that _side effect on the night she'd slept with him. Wardens were practically infertile at the best of times.

_His daughter._

He was filled with an overwhelming desire to find her. _Family. _If that child was his, he wanted to know her, wanted to acknowledge her, meet her, watch her grow. It took a lot of control not to pack his things and leave for Antiva immediately.

There were things that needed to be done first, he knew. But they suddenly seemed unimportant. He snorted to himself, as he dressed, getting into his armour in preparation for his watch - the final before dawn. He needed to tell Leliana. _That _was going to be interesting. _Leliana, last night I had a vision..._

He was still smiling to himself as he went to relieve one of the merchants for his watch.


	5. Chapter 5

Getting in wasn't a problem. The Keep had been his childhood home - he and Delilah and Thomas had explored every nook and cranny of the place. And he had learned things in the Free Marches - not just from his squiring, but from Leliana, who's stealthy abilities were impressive.

No, getting in had been easy. Although it was strange hearing Orlesian accents giving orders, Orlesian wardens speaking in their native tongue to each other. His father, veteran of the rebellion, would be turning in his grave.

That had probably been the point, he thought bitterly.

It had been sentimentality that caught him. Looking into Delilah's room - they hadn't given it over to any of the new wardens - still furnished the way she'd loved it - no frills or ostentation. Just a beautiful collection of blues and reds - landscape paintings on the walls (some of them she'd painted herself) - an oasis of calm in a place that had seen so little in the way of calm. He had come here often. To sit and talk with her, to escape his father and even, sometimes, Thomas.

He had no way of knowing if she were alive or dead.

Orlesian voices behind him brought him to himself, and he ran, but it was too late. The wardens were quick, and strong, and even though he managed to disable two of them the final two knocked him out and threw him into a prison. He knew if he told them who he was he was like to be killed immediately, so he retreated into himself and refused to talk. They did not use torture on him, the Seneschal... Varel I think his name was, had forbidden it to Nathaniel's relief, but left him to rot with nothing but food and water.

Aedan Cousland was coming. He gathered that from the little conversational Orlesian he had learned. If he waited, he might have a chance to kill the man. Not so much for what he had done to his father - Leliana and Alistair had told him enough to make him realise that Rendon Howe was not the man he'd always thought - but for what he'd done to his sister.

He spent a week in the cell. When the sounds of fighting started he was curious, but not too upset. Let these home invaders be destroyed. The prison block was secure and although there were several occasions when the door was battered, it was Ferelden oak, proof against the best lockpicks and strongest warriors. Some of the sounds that emerged from behind it were worrying - and Nathaniel thought possibly the attackers might have been darkspawn, but he remained ignorant until the attack was complete.

The guard captain, Garavel, came to see him shortly after the attack. He flung him some food, looking disgusted, but did not speak until Nathaniel asked him what had happened.

"A darkspawn attack," the guard captain said. "Many good men were killed while you were locked safe in here." The man looked as though he wanted to spit. "Maker curse you."

"I did not ask to be locked here."

"You're a common thief," the man snarled back. "The Commander will deal with you."

"The Commander is here?" Nathaniel asked.

"Arrived in time to save many lives," Garavel said. "I hope he wrings your miserable neck for you."

_Not if I can get my hands on his first, _Nathaniel thought.

It was another day before the Commander came to him. Of course they had no idea who he was. He suspected if he'd given the seneschal his name the Cousland boy would have been down here immediately, ready to slit his throat. But Nathaniel preferred to wait.

Alistair and Leliana had cautioned him against trying to kill the man. Although that was Nathaniel's first intention on hearing of the destruction of his family, he was beginning to reconsider. The bastard and the bard hadn't wanted Aedan killed - or at least, Leliana hadn't, and he suspected Alistair's desire for revenge was purely personal. Much as both of them hated to admit it, the man was a competent ruler and an excellent politician and removing him would harm Ferelden in the short term.

Instead, when he'd revealed his determination to travel back to his family's lands, they'd asked him to spy for them. Send back information about the man and his actions. Keep an eye on him. Nathaniel had readily agreed. There was no point in killing him immediately after all.

His capture complicated matters. There was a chance Aedan would have him hung straight away. If that happened - well it was in the Maker's hands. Nathaniel found he cared though. He still didn't know what had happened to Delilah. Thomas - well he'd heard he was dead in the war, not that the drunken sot he had become would even have noticed if someone ran a sword through his chest. And he was curious about the Cousland boy.

Face to face with him, he found he was sufficiently intrigued to confess what he'd been planning - leaving out a few pertinent details. The ice blue eyes bored into him with insight and perception - far more so than the boy's brother, Fergus, who Nathaniel had met many times. He looked more like Eleanor than Bryce, Nathaniel thought. The woman had always had more brains than her husband.

The conversation was brief and Nathaniel could glean _nothing _from the man. There was a slight flash in his eyes, however, as he called for the seneschal to come down to the dungeon. Nathaniel braced himself for the order of execution, but when Aedan ordered him conscripted he felt like the ground had been knocked out from under him.

"What? No! Hang me first!"

Aedan cocked an eyebrow at him and Nathaniel found he regretted the outburst. The man _would _hang him, without hesitation. But he wanted him to be a Grey Warden instead. There had to be a reason for it. And truly, what else was there for Nathaniel to do with his life? Go back to the Free Marches? Become a wandering assassin for hire? At least this way he would have some honour left.

Fortunately Aedan ignored his outburst and he was escorted to the audience chamber. It was so familiar that Nathaniel felt another sharp stab of nostalgia - enough to distract him from the upcoming ritual. Enough for him to close his eyes and drink from the goblet that Varel handed him. The taste was foul, the pain, when it came, was blinding and unbearable.

Then there were the dreams...

* * *

When he came to a blond man was leaning over him, a sunny smile on his face. "Well, you're not dead," he said cheerfully. "Which means you're one of us."

"Who are you?"

"Anders, at your service, my good man. First Warden mage in Ferelden, I suppose, considering there's just you, our Commander and a dwarf for now. Unless you're a mage in disguise?"

Nathaniel sat up. He was still on the floor of the audience chamber and it appeared that taking the joining had made him less of a threat, for there was no one else in the room and the mage...

Well he probably wouldn't be able to take the mage, not in his current state any way.

"Do I look like a mage?"

"No. But then, some of us prefer not to advertise the fact."

"I'm not a mage," Nathaniel said, rubbing his eyes. His dreams had been disturbing and violent - not for the first time, but this time there were also darkspawn.

"You probably have a thumping headache," Anders said. "I know I did when I woke up. I can take the edge off it for you. The Commander assigned you a room - I think the grumpy looking elf over there will show it to you if you want to rest a bit more. The Commander said to give you a few hours, but he wants to go down to the basements as soon as possible. Apparently there are still darkspawn about."

He got to his feet, the mage assisting him. "You can't tell?"

Anders shrugged. "I went through my joining yesterday," he said. "I wouldn't know how to sense a darkspawn if you put me in a nest. Apparently it'll come in a day or so."

"So where are all the Orlesian wardens?" Nathaniel asked.

The mages' face darkened. "Gone. Or dead. We're not sure which."

"Troubling."

"You could say that. Do you want to go to your room?"

"You said you could do something about my head?"

"Oh, right. Yes." Anders lifted a hand and held it next to Nathaniel's temple for a moment, green light flaring. The pressure and pain behind his eyes faded almost instantly and Nathaniel felt a warm languor spread through his limbs.

"Nice trick," he said.

The mage gave a half grin. "I do my best. I'll see you back here in a few hours. The servants will wake you when it's time. Oh, and the Commander said the gear you need will be in your room."

"Thanks."

He'd been given Thomas' old room. He couldn't help but snort in laughter. The boy had rarely slept in it, preferring the gutters and whorehouses of Amaranthine to his own home. Still, it rankled slightly that he'd been assigned the room of his brother, when undoubtably Aedan Cousland was camping in the luxurious master chamber of his parents. Probably with a heavy guard today, he thought, given Nathaniel's relative freedom.

The mage's spell had made him drowsy and he checked the chest in the room to find his gear before stripping to his smallclothes and getting into the bed. He needed rest, and if Aedan Cousland had been going to kill him he would have done so by now.

The dreams were not as bad this time. But they were bad.

When he woke again he was momentarily disoriented. In a bed, for the first time since Kirkwall, in a familiar room. He felt different - stronger, more alert. An elf stepped back from his side hastily and he realised he'd been woken by shaking - odd. Normally he slept lightly enough that someone opening the door would wake him. The mage's spell must have sedated him.

"The Commander wishes you to gear yourself and meet him in the courtyard," the elf said deferentially.

"Thank you," he said, trying to see if the elf was one of the servants he remembered. The face was unfamiliar, but that didn't mean much. Nathaniel hadn't paid much attention to the servants when he'd been younger.

He geared himself and lifted his bow, running his fingers over the string to be sure it was still intact and checking his arrows. Aedan hadn't even asked him what his skills were before recruiting him, although he guessed the gear he carried had given him away in some respects. He sheathed his daggers and made his way down to the courtyard.

The mage and a dwarf were there already. The dwarf was red haired and bearded and eyed him with a belligerent expression. "You're Rendon Howe's little blighter," he said.

"That's one way of putting it," Nathaniel replied.

"They talked about you in the army. Fergus Cousland said you wouldn't have the stones to show your face again. But you proved him wrong. I respect that."

"You do?"

"Yeah. Throw caution to the wind. Run headlong into danger and sod the consequences. That's the only way to live."

"Thanks. I think."

"Yup. Don't you give a piss what the others think. Oghren's got your back."

Nathaniel blinked. As first conversations went, it was strange. And he recognised the name.

"You were with the Commander during the blight," he said.

"Huh. Heard of me, have you?"

"Smelt you, more like," Anders commented from where he was leaning against a statue of Andraste.

"Shut up, sparkle fingers."

"I heard stories of the Commanders companions, yes."

"Don't believe a word of 'em. Except for the one about the barmaid and the ale barrel. _That _one's true. Still got the scar to prove it."

"I'm sure," Nathaniel said. He was wondering how to extricate himself from the conversation when Aedan Cousland arrived. He was speaking urgently to Varel as he walked and Nathaniel was struck again by how confident the man seemed. Dressed in heavy armour with the Griffon crest of the wardens emblazoned on the front, the man carried a longsword and shield strapped to his back and carried a winged helm under his arm. The man looked like he could take on the entire horde of darkspawn himself.

Of course, he and the two others beside him had done just that the previous evening. If he was going to let Leliana and Alistair know how things were going in Amaranthine, he would probably have to paint the Commander in a favourable light. For now.

"Darkspawn came up through the tunnels under the keep," Aedan said simply as he approached. "I've been informed there may be more, as well as a possible entrance to the deep roads. We're going down to check it out."

They nodded. Aedan's eyes brushed over Nathaniel. "You're an archer then?" he asked. "I'm going to assume you're skilled enough to hold your own with Anders in the background."

Anders bristled. "I'm a battlemage," he said. "I don't need to hang back you know."

The Commander's eyes flashed as he turned his attention to the blond man. "No, but you're our healer so you will," he said. His tone was completely cold and Nathaniel saw Anders' eyebrow twitch upwards in surprise. "You won't be risking yourself in melee. Oghren and I can handle it. Stay back and keep us together. I'm likely to gut you myself if you get in the way of my sword."

"Suit yourself," Anders said. "But you'll be missing out on some of my best spells."

"If Oghren and I fall, you'll get your chance to be showy," Aedan said. "In the meantime, keep the sod back. And remember who your commander is. This isn't the Tower and you're not escaping any time soon."

Nathaniel thought the mage was skating on thin ice and tried to catch his eye, but the man wouldn't look at him. Instead Nathaniel caught a hint of an eye roll as Aedan turned his attention to the entrance to the cellars. Anders had better hope Aedan didn't find another mage healer more willing to dance to his tune or he could end up gutted.

Nathaniel felt a wave of helplessness wash over him suddenly and he wondered if it had been a good idea to come to Amaranthine at all. If Aedan knew that Alistair was still alive - if he found out that Nathaniel had been in contact with the man and not informed him...

This... this was going to be very interesting.


	6. Chapter 6

She tried to talk him out of it. It felt wrong, somehow, to be arguing against him following a vision and she couldn't help but laugh at herself. There would have been a time when she was honoured to have been asked to go with him.

But that it involved Morrigan... that Alistair had _slept _with her...

Part of that hurt. She'd never thought of him in that way - at least she'd never thought she had, until the story came pouring out of him - exactly what Morrigan had done when she'd taken him from Fort Drakon. She'd felt a sharp stab of what could only be jealousy and wondered at it. Perhaps it was the animation in his features as he talked of the child. His daughter. It made her chest hurt, thinking about how alone and abandoned he must feel to think that a child of Morrigan's might be a connection that would make him feel _better._

She supposed the child _was _his. Morrigan had slept with Aedan a few times, but Leliana had always supposed it was because she was trying to control the man. She had probably been right. As for using Alistair to get pregnant - the timing was right and Leliana couldn't really imagine Morrigan getting pregnant accidentally - the woman did nothing accidentally.

So why had she gotten pregnant at all? Why with _Alistair's _child of all things? The woman had made no secret of her dislike of the man, and she had been completely shocked to hear that Alistair had succumbed to her seduction.

"I wasn't exactly in full possession of my faculties, Leliana," he'd said wryly. "She healed me and... then she.. and it was over really before I had any chance to say _anything..."_

She'd suppressed a grin at that, although she knew that wasn't what he'd meant. Despite everything that had happened, he was still an innocent in many respects.

"What makes you think she wants you to find her?" Leliana had said, and almost regretted it when the naked hurt spread across her friend's face. They were in camp on the night he had told her.

"I know she doesn't," he said. "But that doesn't mean she can keep the baby away from me. Leliana, this is _family. _This is _my daughter."_

"If this vision of yours was even a true one."

He cocked an eyebrow at her and she couldn't help but smile in return. "More crazy?" he said. "I bet you thought we were all full up."

"It seems the ... _crazy _as you put it is overflowing," she said. "I will come with you, Alistair. But if what you say is true, Morrigan is with the Dalish. How do you even plan to contact them?"

"We found the Dalish in the Brescilian forest, didn't we?"

"We may not be so lucky again. Do not your Templar brethren attempt to track down Dalish mages with little or no success?"

"They're not my brethren," Alistair almost snarled. Leliana was a little shocked by his vehemence, but he immediately softened. "We'll be no threat to them."

"I do not know if that matters so much, with the Dalish."

"Let's make for Antiva City first," he said after a moment's thought. "I don't suppose you've been to Antiva?"

She couldn't help but grin lopsidedly at the memories that came back to her. "Only the once," she said. "Although it was not what you'd call an extensive tour of the sights. I know my way around."

"That's more than me," he said.

And so they went to Antiva.

The journey was uneventful. They were too well armed a target for bandits and the stream of desperate Ferelden refugees had stemmed. It seemed Aedan and Anora were doing a good job of rebuilding the country, or of offering people the motivation to go back. Farms were being rebuilt, land was being cleansed of the taint. The man was brutally efficient when it suited him, and Anora was a good match for that efficiency.

It was strange, being on the road alone with him. They had taken lodgings in Kirkwall on the night they arrived from Denerim - by virtue of Leliana's stash of coin, and soon afterwards had found mercenary work guarding caravans from refugees and bandits. It had not been lost on either of them that there was a very, _very _fine line between them and the people they were supposedly protecting the merchants from. In any case they had not spent much time alone together since getting off the ship.

The Alistair of the early days of the Blight was not completely gone, she realised. There were flashes of his old humour, days when she could almost believe he was the same man he had been. But he brooded. There were days when he didn't speak at all and she knew he was thinking about what might have happened in that Landsmeet chamber, if Aedan hadn't wanted the throne as badly as he had - if Riordan hadn't suggested they spare Loghain. Alistair didn't doubt that Aedan would have had him executed, even if Anora hadn't suggested it.

At night she would sing, sometimes, and Alistair would close his eyes and listen, seeming to enjoy the melodies. Once she even caught him humming along, when she sang an old Chantry hymn she'd always loved. His voice was a cracked tenor - tuneful, but not skilled.

They didn't talk, much. She didn't really know what to say to him. He didn't seem to know what to say to her. Occasionally she would catch him looking at her and she _knew _that look - he'd looked at her that way in camp a few times before he'd obviously decided she wasn't interested. But the look would cloud and she found she was disappointed - obviously his night with Morrigan had left a lasting impression. Possibly a traumatic one. For all that he said she hadn't taken him by force - she knew that force had different meanings when it came to sex. Too well. He'd been damaged by what she'd done, and he wouldn't admit it.

He clung to the idea of the child, as though that would fix everything. Despite everything, her heart ached for him, and she hoped he would find what he was looking for.

They'd been in Antiva City for a week when the assassin came. Naturally he went for Alistair rather than Leliana, thinking he would be the easy target. But the object was not a clean kill, as they discovered when Alistair dragged the man, kicking, by the hair into Leliana's room.

"Found this snooping in my room," he said. "Thought you might like to take a look at him. If the rumours are right and Zevran _is _heading up the Crows these days he needs to hire better people."

Leliana gave a half smile, sitting up in her bed. She wore her plain sleeping shift, but her daggers were easily drawn before she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She always kept them close, sheathed beneath her pillows.

"There was only one?" she said.

Alistair nodded.

"Zevran didn't send him to kill us then," she said. "My guess would be he's been sent here for us to..."

Alistair cocked an eyebrow and grinned. "Squeeze?"

"Even if Zevran is not the head of the Crows, we would be silly not to take advantage of such a font of information, no?"

He cracked his knuckles. The assassin let out a whimper.

"He is not a full Crow," Leliana said. "Or at least, not yet."

"How... how do you know?" the assassin said in heavily accented Ferelden.

"Because if you were a full Crow," Alistair said, "you'd be dead already, or much, _much _quieter. Or didn't your masters tell you about the initiation rituals you've got ahead of you?"

"Rituals?"

Leliana slithered closer to him and knelt in front of him. He was a boy, really. Not more than sixteen. "Didn't you wonder, child," she said, "why they sent you, and only you after a Grey Warden?"

The boy's eyes widened and he looked up at Alistair, who cocked an eyebrow at him. _"You're _the hero of Ferelden?" he gasped, voice laced with awe.

The guffaw Alistair let out probably woke most of the patrons in the inn. Leliana heard the bitterness in it, but she could also hear humour. "Why, _no, _boy. I'm just a warden, like any other. But thanks for the compliment."

"They didn't tell me who you were," the boy continued. "Just sent me after you, said you'd be an easy first mark."

Leliana looked up at Alistair, who's face had turned speculative. "Tell us who your employers are," she said. "And we'll let you go."

"You will?"

She nodded.

The boy gave her an address without any hesitation. "I suggest you head for the nearest port, boy," Alistair said. "The Crows do _not _like people who inform on them. Make for Rainesfaire in Ferelden. You might find a Bann there who'll take you in as a knight if you're skilled enough."

Leliana cocked an eyebrow. Teagan probably would take in an errant rogue out of the kindness of his heart. And the boy could expect no mercy from the Crows, even if Zevran had sent him to be caught deliberately.

Maybe the elf had counted on Alistair's kind heartedness. Or her own. He had been very good at reading character, that elf.

The boy fled, after Alistair gave him some coins. They hadn't even had to threaten him with violence. Obviously someone had wanted him out of the way. Alistair watched him go, arms crossed over his chest. "The fool made so much noise getting into my room it would have woken a drunk Oghren," he said, smiling a little. "It's lucky I struck to stun, otherwise we'd have to explain blood on the floor of my room to the innkeeper. My Antivan isn't good enough for that."

He turned back to her and she grinned, getting to her feet and brushing down her shift. When she looked back up she found Alistair's eyes locked on her, his lips slightly parted. The shift she wore was short and thin - it concealed rather than covered. The heat of Antiva had made them both adjust their sleep wear, in fact - she noticed suddenly that Alistair wore nothing but sleeping trousers. She swallowed, suddenly far more than warm.

"Ah... We should probably get some more sleep," he said, stuttering and turning away from her. "We can go to that address in the morning."

"Of course," Leliana heard herself say. She was surprised her voice wasn't hoarse. Alistair hadn't turned quite far enough away for the effects of her clothing not to be noticed. "We'll need to be prepared."

She saw the bob of his throat as he swallowed, head still turned away. "Goodnight, Leliana," he said softly as he left.

She sighed.


	7. Chapter 7

Aedan rested his head in his hands. Things were getting more complicated and it was difficult to control his temper. He'd had to throw that cat at the damn mage to stop him from running off. Much as he wished to see the back of him, the new mage was dreadful at healing (although extremely impressive at anything that involved hurting humans) and he had a crazy talking darkspawn out for warden blood. Doing without a healer was not an option at present. He wouldn't have minded so much if the man would just shut his mouth for more than a few minutes.

It didn't help that he reminded Aedan of Alistair.

To top it off he had a dead man wearing armour following him around spouting sanctimony at him and a disgustingly perky dwarf who should truly have known better. He wanted to march back to Denerim and force twenty of his soldiers through the joining, just so he'd have someone other than the _Howe _to talk to who didn't make him want to hit something.

As it was he had to make do with what he had. The Vigil was fortified, his troops were armed and armoured to Wade's satisfaction and the rebellious populace had been efficiently dealt with, although the servants were still cleaning up the mess. Aedan was simply waiting for something else to go wrong.

He didn't have long to wait.

Varel accosted him as he was walking down to the courtyard to consult with Wade about his new sword. Starfang and their accompanying daggers he had promised to Nathaniel if the new sword lived up to everything Wade was promising, although gathering the materials for it had taxed Aedan's patience and his resources.

"The nobles have assembled, Commander," Varel said. "They're demanding an audience."

Aedan tutted. "Did you tell them what happened to the last people who tried to _demand _my attention?" he snapped.

Varel winced. "No, ser. I didn't need to. And I'm afraid they have the right to question you as the Arl. Unlike our previous guests."

Aedan, who was perfectly aware of the rights of the Banns who served under him, almost snarled at the Seneschal. Instead he managed to take a deep breath and get a hold of his emotions. "Right," he said. "I'll be there in a moment. I just need to see Wade first."

"Commander..."

"Five minutes, Varel," Aedan said. "It won't kill them to wait five minutes. I might kill them if I'm forced to go any sooner, however."

"As you wish, Commander."

Wade delivered the sword to him, and it was indeed, everything he'd hoped for. He tested the balance and the enchantments with a few swings before sheathing it on his back and making his way up to the audience chamber.

The nobles were predictable and irritating and he was about to dismiss them when the messenger arrived.

Amaranthine under attack. Blast it. The city was where nearly all of the Arling's income came from - they couldn't afford to lose it.

"Anders, Sigrun, Nathaniel, you're with me. The rest of you will need to hold the keep if the darkspawn attack. The dwarves have strengthened the fortifications more than enough, we have the troops."

"Who will you leave in command?" Varel asked.

There was really only one choice, and he blanched slightly at it. But Oghren had commanded troops before, both in the deep roads and on the surface. If he could stay sober...

"Oghren."

The dwarf perked up at that - he'd been miserable for weeks, ever since Aedan had told him to bite the bullet and talk to his wife, but perhaps he'd just needed to be trusted with command. It was difficult, when the man did nothing to earn the trust. During the Blight, with everything else happening around them, Aedan hadn't truly noticed how destructive the dwarf's drinking was. He supposed it could have gotten worse since then. Or perhaps he'd just been less maudlin.

Anders looked resentful at being dragged from the keep, although Aedan had included Sigrun partially to placate the damnable mage. He'd probably even bring the cat. He was under strict instructions not to talk to Aedan unless asked a direct question, but it didn't stop the dwarf and the mage from flirting with each other at every opportunity on the way to Amaranthine. Nathaniel walked with him in companionable silence, however, and not for the first time Aedan found himself grateful for the man. And curious.

"Are you worried about your sister?" he asked softly, when they were close to the city.

"Of course," Nathaniel said. "But she's a sensible woman. If the darkspawn truly are attacking the city she will go where she can be protected."

"How is it that your father managed to raise two _sensible _children?"

Nathaniel snorted. "You assume a relationship where none existed," he said. "My sister, brother and I were raised by Adria, not my parents. My parents were busy with other matters."

Aedan let out a short bark of a laugh. "I sometimes wish my parents had done the same," he said.

"You did not get along with them?"

Aedan shrugged. "Fergus was their favourite. I was too small for father, too plain for mother. Not smart enough for my tutors, not compassionate enough for the Chantry."

"Yet you were recruited to the wardens. The former Commander... Duncan? He must have seen something in you that was worthy of such an honour."

"You believe being a warden is an honour, Ser Howe?" Aedan asked, cocking his eyebrow at the man. "After I conscripted you from a prison cell?"

Nathaniel looked a little surprised. "I do," he said. "I told you my grandfather was a warden - or at least he was recruited - even if he did die in the joining."

"You also said your father despised him."

Nathaniel's mouth twisted. "It seems to be a pattern amongst fathers and sons in my family."

Aedan looked away for a moment. "I think I know what Duncan saw in me. Although it puzzles me sometimes - how he recruited. I was willing to do anything to stop the Blight. Things that most people would flinch at doing. That wasn't the case with most of the other wardens I met - save for Riordan."

"Is that why you recruited Loghain?"

Aedan snorted. "Part of the reason, yes. The man was so single minded as to be almost fanatical. When we managed to convince him Orlais wasn't the threat he fixated on defeating the archdemon to such an extent that it made everything I'd done seem like child's play."

"And the rest of the reason?"

"Oh, I loved watching Alistair squirm," Aedan laughed.

Nathaniel's expression changed slightly then, flickering with something that Aedan thought was admiration. The man was similar to him in many ways - although Aedan suspected when push came to shove the man would err on the side of compassion. A pity. As it was he planned on passing the Commander title to him as soon as this business was finished. He truly couldn't afford to leave Anora on her own for so long.

Anders' voice floated up at them suddenly, raised in incredulity.

"Why do you want me to kill the bush?" he was saying.

"Because it's there. It's an evil bush. Do it!" Sigrun replied. Aedan repressed a groan. The two of them were almost insufferable.

"Magic isn't for your amusement. Why don't I just do a little dance? Anders' Spicy Shimmy..."

"Eww. I think I'll pass."

"I'll be going back to court after we finish this," Aedan said over the top of the two other wardens. "I'm thinking of leaving you in charge."

"Of the wardens?" Nathaniel said.

"Yes."

The dark haired man looked troubled. "That will make me Arl of Amaranthine. I don't think the nobles will.."

"Sod the nobles," Aedan said. "We've destroyed those who were conspiring against me. Putting you in charge will placate any who we missed. And none of the other wardens.." he motioned his head backwards towards the dwarf and the mage "have any chance of being able to lead."

Nathaniel cocked an eyebrow. "You don't think Anders would be able to handle it?"

"Did you just try to make a joke with me, Nate?"

"Mmm. I believe I did. Are you going to have me flogged?"

"No. But I am going to make you Commander of the Grey. We can arrange something with the title - Anora should never have granted that boon in any case. If she had any understanding of what Grey Wardens are supposed to do she wouldn't have. There's always a chance I can keep the Arling under my name and have it administrated through someone else once I'm back at court. I'm still technically Warden Commander..."

"Commander!" Sigrun's voice came from behind them. "Darkspawn!"

They were near the gates of Amaranthine. Aedan felt the familiar tingling along his spine and fetid taste in his mouth that meant the beasts were near. He unsheathed Vigilance as Nate unhooked his bow.

"Later," Aedan said to his second. "We'll talk about this after the city is safe."

Nathaniel had a gleam in his eye as he nodded, nocking the first arrow to his string as they launched themselves into battle once again.


	8. Chapter 8

Naming the child had been difficult. Urthemiel seemed a little weighty for something that showed no indication of knowing what it was beyond an eating machine. She nursed almost constantly. Any plan Morrigan had of leaving the Dalish was waylaid by the sheer amount of time the thing consumed. She discovered, after a week, that she could nurse the child while walking around, if she carried her in a sling, and this made her life more bearable, but the amount of energy the small life seemed to suck out of her made any thought of travel abhorrent.

Xanthi for her part seemed smug about being right regarding Morrigan's predicament. The woman truly was insufferable, but in a way that was beginning to be familiar and almost comforting.

"I wouldn't usually offer a shem this," she told Morrigan one morning when she came to deliver food and other supplies. "But you are welcome to stay with us for as long as you wish. We can keep you hidden from the Chantry - the child will have a family of sorts with our people, and we can exchange more of our magics."

"You mean you can learn more of _my _magics," Morrigan said, shifting the child to her other breast. "It is quite clear that your own fall far short of what I have learned from my mother."

Xanthi was unfazed. "You wouldn't trust any offer of friendship I gave you, Morrigan, unless we stood to gain from it."

She smiled. "True," she said. "And I certainly cannot travel as yet. Why did no one tell me that nursing a child was so damnably _tiring?"_

"I'm assuming you never talked of childbirth with your own mother?"

"I am not even certain she _was _my biological mother," Morrigan confessed. "She raised me, tis true, but I did not notice any resemblance between us."

Xanthi's purple eyes were calculating. "I doubt the woman of many years would have trusted someone not of her blood to the extent that she trusted you," she said.

Morrigan snorted. "She trusted me with nothing. The bulk of what I learned I stole from her. And she never told me..." Morrigan stopped. There was no reason to tell the Keeper why she'd convinced Aedan to kill Flemeth. Childbirth had left her brain-addled. Lack of sleep was making her lose her concentration. Magic, that had always come so easily to her, was erratic. She could no longer shapeshift, or sustain any spells for longer than a few moments.

Xanthi said it was normal - that Dalish Keepr mothers had the same difficulty.

_"You do not restrict your mages from having children?" Morrigan had asked. Xanthi had laughed._

_"Amongst the Dalish, having magic is considered a gift, not a curse."_

_"How extremely practical you Dalish are," Morrigan had replied. _

"Have you decided on a name for the child?" Xanthi asked.

Morrigan nodded. "Ceindrech," she said softly, looking down into the baby's muddy eyes. They were still uncertain in colour, but darkening, and her head was crowned with a strong growth of red-gold hair a few shades lighter than her father's. At the moment, it seemed clear the girl was favoring her father.

Xanthi cocked an eyebrow. "Old Ferelden?" she said.

"I didn't think you Dalish believed in the written word," Morrigan said, surprised.

"The _written _word, not especially," the Keeper said, chuckling. "But many of us speak several languages. I find words fascinating - when said aloud. What does that name mean?"

"Beautiful sight," Morrigan replied softly. The Keeper sat back in surprise. "What?" Morrigan snapped.

Xanthi chuckled and shook her head. "Perhaps I underestimated how much you wished for this child, Morrigan," she said. "You have not presented as... over joyful at her arrival."

Morrigan stroked her daughter's cheek. "She is... very welcome, Xanthi, I assure you," she said. "I have wished for her for a long time."

"But the father has not?"

"The father... " Xanthi tilted her head and Morrigan again cursed the woman's ability to get information out of her. "The father is of no consequence," she finished abruptly.

"Truly?" Xanthi said. "I find I am more and more curious about him. Especially his elven blood."

"He was Ferelden," Morrigan said. "Your clan would not have known him."

"But you say he showed no indication of knowing of his heritage?"

"I thought elves disdained those born of mixed blood?" Morrigan said.

"Generally we do," Xanthi replied. "Considering they are for all intents and purposes human to everyone's eyes. But they are part of us, nonetheless. Am I to understand the father does not know of your pregnancy?"

"I certainly hope he doesn't," Morrigan muttered.

Xanthi's face clouded. "Morrigan... were you... "

Morrigan looked up, shifting in her seat. She was fully healed, thanks to Xanthi, but sitting in the same position for so long whilst her daughter fed was uncomfortable for a woman accustomed as she was to long days of walking. "Was I what?"

"Were you taken by force? Did this man attack you?"

For a moment Morrigan couldn't believe what she was hearing. _Alistair? _Forcing himself on someone? The boy was so repressed she was amazed she'd managed to get him to perform at all. As it was it had taken a strong disorient spell and some rejuvenation before he'd lost his inhibitions enough to let his lust control him. Xanthi was looking at her with a sympathetic frown between her eyes and it was all Morrigan could do not to burst into laughter.

"Indeed, I was not," she said finally. "I assure you, Xanthi, this child was... planned by me. The father did not know because he did not need to know. He will never know. I will never see him again."

Xanthi's face was still troubled. "And this does not bother you?"

"Not in the least," Morrigan laughed. "It would bother me far, far more to have him still around. No, we are better off without him, are we not, my Ceindrech?" The baby had detached herself from the breast and was blowing milky bubbles up at her mother, fists waving happily. Morrigan rearranged her robe and cuddled her to her chest, careful not to jolt her, having learned early that the girl was all to ready to bring her meals back up again if she was manhandled too roughly after a feed.

"You are a remarkably practical woman, Morrigan," Xanthi said, smiling. "Please, consider my offer. You have blended with our way of life well. The other apprentices learn swiftly under your tutelage and the Hunters respect your strength. Your child will make a fine addition to our clan, if she takes after you at all."

"But you won't allow her to breed with any of your men," Morrigan pointed out.

Xanthi chuckled. "No. But is that such a bad thing? You do not need to stay with us forever. She can seek out her own kind once she is old enough. As you obviously did. I doubt the father of your child came to steal you from your mother in the Wilds."

Morrigan laughed. "No. Not precisely," she said. "I will consider your offer, Keeper. It does seem as though it will be some time before I am able to travel, in any case. So for now, I will stay."

"Good," Xanthi pronounced, as though Morrigan had already agreed.

Later, once Ceindrech had drifted to sleep and was lying in the leather crib made for her, Morrigan thought over the Keeper's words. She had found life with the Dalish surprisingly peaceful and pleasant. Far more akin to her life before she had met Aedan and Alistair, with the added advantage of lacking the overbearing attention of her mother. The forests of Antiva were warmer and gentler than the woods of the wilds - the creatures friendlier, the herbs and game more plentiful. Life was easier here than it had ever been.

Xanthi's offer was tempting. She had no reason to horde her mother's magics, especially given the Keeper's apparent willingness to share other Dalish magics with her in exchange. She could rest here. Bring Ceindrech to an age where travel was easier for them both. Train her in magic without fear of being captured by the Templars. Regain her strength.

Then she could strike against Aedan if she wished. Or simply explore the possibilities Ceindrech could offer her - the opportunities her mother had only hinted at, that her mother's grimoire spoke of in riddles and obscure hints that eluded her understanding.

She looked at the baby in the crib - her soft hair and chubby fists, suddenly wandering exactly what she had created. Power, certainly. But was it power she would be willing to use? Or power that would eventually destroy her?


	9. Chapter 9

Nathaniel sank gratefully into the bath, not caring that a few of his wounds were still bleeding, not caring that the water turned murky with darkspawn blood and mud and Maker knew what else as soon as his body was submerged. It was the warmth he craved. Despite everything they'd done, despite the exertion, the fighting, the sweat caked under his armour that never seemed to entirely dry - he was chilled to the bone and shivering by the time they'd made it to the Crown and Lion.

Anders had put his hand to Nathaniel's forehead in the taproom, looking uncharacteristically grim, and pronounced him whole enough, but he'd been unable to heal the minor cuts and bruises that plagued him. Sigrun and Aedan had been in far worse shape, being up close to the Mother, in range of her acidic spit and ever flailing tentacles and Nathaniel had waved him off, insisting that what injuries he had he could deal with himself. Sigrun was bleeding from a gash in her head and limping from a wrenched ankle, Aedan had a dislocated shoulder and broken ribs. Anders had done what he could in the cavern to get them back on their feet, but Nathaniel had never seen him consume so much lyrium and he didn't believe the man could take any more.

The mage was more exhausted than all of them, despite his lack of injuries. Even Aedan had had to give the blond man a grudging congratulations at keeping them together through the fight with the Architect and then the Mother and still find the energy (or the lyrium) for a final Tempest while the rest of them lay incapacitated or worse amongst the corpses of the children.

He let his head fall back against the side of the bath, water gently lapping. It wasn't the tentacles of the Mother that he saw when he shut his eyes, however. Or the distorted, bizarre face of the Architect with his mad schemes. It wasn't even the demon form of the Baroness from the Blackmarsh, or the Spirit Dragon - or the chittering, cockroach like legs of the Children...

It was the faces of the people Aedan had ordered him to slaughter in the courtyard of what had been his home. It was Aedan's face as he'd given the order - completely expressionless, utterly cold. It was the feel of his bow in his hands as he pulled and released an arrow into the heart of an unarmed woman.

Nathaniel felt tears leaking from beneath his closed lids. His father had done the same to Aedan's family - had slaughtered the servants - the children... Maker help him, at least there had been no children at the keep that day...

He doubted his father had been at Castle Cousland himself, however. Rendon Howe was not one to do scut work if he could hire someone to do it for him. Oh, he would have liked to kill Bryce personally, but not f it meant risking his own skin.

Was doing that to the citizens of Amaranthine - was that what Aedan had meant when he said what it was to be a Grey Warden? Whatever it takes to stop the Blight. And yet he had rejected the Architect's offer. Even Aedan, it seemed, baulked at letting a mad darkspawn decide the fate of Thedas.

Nathaniel couldn't bring himself to believe that there had been no way to make the people of Amaranthine see reason, despite what Varel had said, what Garavel thought. They were innocents. There had to have been a better way.

And now Aedan wanted him to lead the Wardens. Soon, by all accounts. Once they had assessed the damage to the keep.

He would take the position - no doubt about it. Perhaps with Aedan gone he would be able to gain the trust of Sigrun and Anders - find out exactly what it was that made Oghren drink so much. He might be able to serve the broken people he had been so willing to slaughter on Aedan's order.

Once he had the title of Warden Commander, perhaps he would be able to break away from some of Aedan's control. The man had no intention of letting the Wardens become independent of him - that much was clear. He wanted Nathaniel to head them because he thought Nathaniel was _his._ Ironic, that the man trusted him so implicitly. If his father had ever bothered to get to know the younger Cousland things might have been very different between the two families. Perhaps Rendon would have taken the boy in - groomed him to be an ally.

Perhaps Aedan would have done to the Howes what his father had ultimately done to the Couslands.

Weisshaupt would have break their significant silence eventually. Wardens were supposed to give up titles and names. Aedan technically _couldn't _be both Warden Commander and Prince Consort, let alone Arl of Amaranthine.

He rubbed the back of his neck. He should communicate with Weisshaupt. Once he had taken command. He had no way of knowing what correspondence Aedan might have entered into with the distant First Warden - had he even _told _the other wardens he was married to the Queen of Ferelden? Had he told them anything at all? He needed to know from someone other than his current Commander what he was expected to _do _here.

And what of Alistair and Leliana? He'd sent word to them twice since he became a Warden, both times under the guise of communicating with the family he had squired with in the Free Marches, but Aedan was too sharp - too paranoid for Nathaniel to risk a more direct contact. As it was, what did he have to report? Aedan's a ruthless, unscrupulous bastard who will stop at nothing to get what he wants? That wasn't anything new to the two people he'd come to regard as friends in their short time together. Unfortunately what Aedan wanted at present was a stable Ferelden and a rebuilt order of Grey Wardens - two things he knew Alistair wanted as well, as much as the man wanted anything beyond seeing Aedan pay for what he'd done.

It was Aedan's way of going about things that made Nathaniel flinch.

He reached up and undid the braid that held back his hair, allowing his head to sink under the water. When he brought it back up again, he heard knocking at the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's Anders," the mage's voice came back. "I've finished with Sigrun and Aedan, thought you might appreciate some more healing."

"Come in," Nathaniel said. The door opened and Anders slipped into the room. Even in the half light from the only lamp Nathaniel could see how worn the man was. Deep dark circles were etched under his eyes and his skin was grey with fatigue. His usually sunny countenance was grim and even the kitten curled on his shoulder seemed sombre. "You're too tired for this," Nathaniel said. "My injuries aren't severe. Go and rest."

"The state of that bathwater tells me otherwise," Anders replied. "Trust me, you'll sleep better for being whole. And I'll sleep better knowing I don't have to attend to you in the morning."

Nathaniel sighed and nodded. It was true - if he went to sleep the way he was now chances were they'd have to pay the inn to replace the sheets on the bed.

"I'll call for your bath to be refilled if you want," Anders said as Nate reached for a towel. He nodded. Truly he was barely cleaner now than he had been when he got in.

Anders was silent as he moved from scratch to scratch on Nathaniel's body - his warm hands and the soporific effects of the healing spells making Nathaniel light headed.

"Our fearless leader tells me he's going to make you the next Warden Commander," Anders said, his tone carefully neutral.

Nathaniel opened his eyes to find Anders' disturbingly close. The mage's hazel gaze was clouded with exhaustion, but disconcertingly intelligent nonetheless.

"Indeed," he said. "Does this bother you?"

"Anything that gets the Cousland out of my face makes me happy," Anders said. "Although I haven't seen much to indicate you'll be any better."

"Do you wish to leave the Wardens?"

The mage looked away, still working on Nathaniel's wounds. "I thought I did," he said. "Before we ran into the Mother. But now..." he looked back at Nate with a small smile on his lips. "Where else do I get to shoot lightning at things with such regularity? I'd only have to hide my magic if I left. At least in the Wardens I can do some good."

Nathaniel let out a small sigh of relief. Doing without the healer would make things difficult - and he didn't have the first idea of how to approach the circle to ask for more recruits. Did they just hand them over? Would he have to test them?

"It seems you'd quite like me to stay," Anders said, smirking. "That gives me a little bit of hope that you're not the total bastard our current Commander is. Despite what said Commander may think of you."

"Aedan does what's necessary," Nathaniel said, somewhat coldly. Anders snorted.

"Excuse me if I think that slaughtering innocent citizens falls out of the realm of _necessary," _he said. Nathaniel flinched, then hoped Anders hadn't noticed, but for someone Nathaniel had always taken as being self absorbed the man was surprisingly observant. "The fact that you seem to think the same is another point in your favor," he said, finishing and sitting back on the bed. "You know, Oghren said Aedan traveled with two mages through the Blight."

"They both left him," Nathaniel said as he made his way back into the refilled bath.

Anders made a face. "If he'd called for me - in the courtyard - I could have sent them to sleep. Disoriented them enough that he could persuade them to leave. There _were _other options. Even Velanna might have helped him if he'd bothered to ask."

"Maybe he didn't know that," Nathaniel said, scrubbing the last of the dirt and blood from his body.

"Are you kidding? The day after he conscripted me he practically made me write a thesis of what I was capable of. He knows my spellbook better than I do. No, he slaughtered those people because he _wanted _to."

Nathaniel closed his eyes and shuddered, again seeing the corpses and blood spilled across the stones. "Yes," he said finally. "I believe he did."

Anders nodded, as though Nathaniel had passed some sort of test. "Well, as long as you're not going to do the same, I'll stick with the Wardens under your command."

Nathaniel fixed the mage with his gaze. "I'm grateful, Anders," he said. "I think I'm going to need your help."

Anders gave him a sunny grin and got to his feet. "Sleep well then, Ser Howe. I know I intend to."

Nathaniel watched him leave and heaved a sigh, thinking that sleep would be difficult in coming. It wasn't however. Once he was dry and warm and whole for the first time in days, sleep claimed him thoroughly and deeply. Thankfully, there were no dreams.


	10. Chapter 10

Alistair sat up with a start. Darkspawn dreams. He hadn't had any since the end of the Blight, even though Nathaniel had written to them about the dreams the Amaranthine wardens were having of the Architect and the Mother. This had been far more like the dreams he'd had just after his joining. Visions of the horde, searching. The soft, insidious hum of the Old Gods directing their mindless followers towards their hiding places.

He had just managed to control those dreams when he met Aedan. And then, of course, they'd started again with triple the force, once they'd seen the archdemon in the deep roads and felt the rippling horror of its taint in their bones as it swooped above them.

He was drenched in sweat. The heat was sweltering, even this early in the morning. At sometime during the night he had kicked the covers from the bed and the trousers off his body so he sat naked in dampness, his mouth dry and tasting of ashes

He swung his feet over the side of the bed and clambered to his feet. Part of him wanted to simply pour the washbasin over his head, but he didn't know how clean that would get him, so he spent some time washing the sweat and heat from his body before going to find Leliana.

Leliana. Months of traveling, during the Blight and continuous close contact had started to affect him. He'd always thought she was beautiful, but before she left, she'd been inscrutable - so far beyond him in experience and what he perceived as intelligence that he'd never been truly comfortable around her, despite his attraction.

Now, after what had happened with the ashes and whatever had occurred with Marjolaine in Denerim, she seemed fragile. Something was missing. The fire that had filled her when she confronted Aedan about his actions was gone. And last night, when she'd stood up and smiled at him...

He shook water from his hair and let out a breath. He didn't need to be thinking about that, not now. They needed to find the people who had sent the assassin. It was obvious they wanted to be found, and if they were anything like what Zevran had said about the Crows - anything like Ignacio in Denerim even, there was a good chance they'd have access to information that could be very useful to them.

Such as the locations of some of the Dalish clans.

Or any possible contracts that might be out on Aedan Cousland.

A slight twinge of anger gripped his belly at the thought of his fellow warden, but it wasn't nearly as intense as it had been. For him, Aedan had become secondary.

* * *

The address was in a less than salubrious locale near the docks of Antiva city - not far from where they were staying. Leliana and Alistair had some trouble locating it, considering the people they asked were less than willing to give more detailed directions than a point and a hasty shuffle away from them.

"I get the impression no one wants to know us," Alistair said wryly after the third person they asked literally sprinted from them after the most cursory of nods towards their destination.

"That makes me think we're going the right way, at least," Leliana said.

"It makes me glad we're wearing armour as well," he said. The gleaming silverite he had worn at the Landsmeet was replaced by dwarven dragonbone, more muted and less expensive looking than his old suit, although just as effective, and Leliana's drakeskin looked suitably battered that they weren't exactly unusual looking, but being so heavily armed and armoured was obviously not the norm in this district, despite the dangers. Alistair suspected that any fighting that occurred here was strictly regulated by whomever they were going to see, and probably took place using poison and stealth rather than brute force.

The address, when they finally reached it, was an unmarked warehouse.

"Hardly surprising," Leliana commented.

"What, you didn't expect a big sign saying 'here there be Crows'? I for one am sadly disappointed." She grinned. "So, do we knock? Or just go in?"

"Come now, Alistair," she said. "The chantry taught you _some _manners. I know. The initiates in Lothering were always polite to me."

"Yes, and I can't think of any reason why a bunch of teenage boys would be polite to _you," _he muttered, but lifted a gauntleted fist to knock on the double doors.

They swung inwards almost immediately, revealing a darkened interior. After the brightness of the street they would be completely blind once they stepped inside, almost certainly planned. Leliana sighed, then stepped forward slowly, perfectly balanced. Alistair followed after her. She was far more capable of responding to an attack blinded than he was. The doors closed behind them, shutting out any chance of seeing the interior of the warehouse.

No attack came. Instead, a heavily accented, deep Antivan voice greeted them. "Remove your weapons," it said. "Leave them at the door."

Alistair unsheathed Duncan's sword, holding it lightly, waiting a few moments, hoping to get his eyes more adjusted to the darkness before he had to surrender his only form of defense. He heard Leliana unsheath her own daggers, also hesitating for the same reason. "Drop them _now."_ The voice said. Alistair leant down and placed his sword on the ground carefully. Leliana's daggers lay next to it a moment later.

There was a grunt of approval. Alistair could make out shadows now, even with the doors closed behind them. One shadow detached itself from the others and motioned them forward. Carefully they followed.

As they walked, the interior started to take shape. There were boxes and crates stacked against the walls of a cavernous room but no hint - no smell or mark - of what might be inside them. They reached another door that opened onto a staircase and climbed, the shadow guiding them resolving into the figure of a man who moved with cat like grace and had two daggers strapped to his back. They climbed the stairs in silence.

The room they entered at the top of the stairs was brilliant with sunshine, another calculation, Alistair thought, considering how much his eyes had adjusted to the dark by this stage.

"Well," a familiar voice came. "When a dead man and a former lover call upon me in my own abode I find I am completely unable to think of what to wear."

Alistair repressed a grin and blinked his eyes until the figure seated behind the desk came into focus. _He's cut his hair_, was the first, incongruous thought. The second was _former lover?_

Leliana let out a silvery laugh. "Zevran," she said. "You exaggerate as always."

Their former companion sighed lustily. "If wishes came true, my dear," he said, getting up from the desk and moving in front of it. "But I had to see you both for myself. When my men said you were in the city I could barely believe it." The room was luxurious, with rich carpets strewn over the board floors, floor to ceiling windows that let in the bright sun and couches and tables strewn around with casual elegance. The desk and chair Zevran had been sitting at was the only hint that the room might be used for anything other than pleasure.

"You've had us watched since we arrived?" Alistair said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Naturally," Zevran said. "I would not be particularly effective in my current role if I did not take note of new arrivals in my city. Especially when one of them has the potential to destabilise the Ferelden monarchy."

"You know I never wanted to be King, Zevran," Alistair said, shifting slightly.

"Your final words at the Landsmeet suggested otherwise, my friend," the elf assassin replied.

"He spared Loghain," Alistair said, feeling his temper rise.

"Alistair," Leliana said, her soft voice cutting through the anger. He took a deep breath. It was over. Loghain was dead, even if he wasn't dead the way Alistair wanted him, in disgrace. And his death had ended the Blight.

"I felt for you, my friend," Zevran continued. "I understand the need for revenge. Only too well, it seems. But it is time to let it go."

Alistair closed his eyes for a moment, his fists clenched at his side, before taking another deep breath and shaking his head. He forced himself to relax, years of Templar discipline taking over.

"Why send the boy?" Leliana said then. "You must have known he wouldn't succeed."

Zevran raised his eyebrow, then shot a look at the two men standing at the door of the room. He gave a short nod and they exited. A slight tension seemed to leave the elf once they were alone. "Did you kill him?" he asked, and his voice was softer as well.

Alistair glanced at Leliana, who raised an eyebrow at him. "No," he said. "I sent him to Teagan. I assume he got away then?"

Zevran gave a short bark of a laugh. "The estimable Bann will no doubt find a lot of use for the boy," he said. "He is skilled, but fell afoul of the Crows too young, I fear. You have my thanks, Alistair. I wished more for the child than what we could have given him."

Alistair nodded, his suspicion confirmed. "So are you in charge now?" he asked.

"It certainly seems so, does it not?" Zevran said, indicating the luxury surrounding him.

"I suspect that simply _seeming _to be in charge is not enough in the Crows," Leliana said. Zevran's expression clouded.

"No. It is not," he said. "I am on shaky ground here, Leliana, as you can well imagine. My... removal of the previous establishment was not without its share of critics."

"How long has it been?" she asked.

"Three months," Zevran replied.

"And why are we here, Zevran?" she asked then.

"Can not a man wish to catch up with old friends?" he said, spreading his hands and giving them his most charming smile.

"If we'd ever _been _friends, Zev, then yes, that would be reasonable," Alistair said.

"Why, then, did _you _come?" he asked then, his face hardening a little.

Alistair looked at Leliana and shrugged. "We need help," he said simply.

A slow smile spread over Zevran's face. "Well then," he said. "That _is _a fortunate coincidence." He reached behind him to a tray which held several glasses and a decanter of what looked like extremely fine brandy. He poured three measures and gestured for them to sit.

"A little early, don't you think Zev?" Lelli said, sitting in the nearest chair.

"It is never too early to indulge in the finer things," Zevran said. "You say you need help?"

Alistair nodded and took a seat of his own.

Zevran smiled and brought his glass to his lips, taking a small sip and looking at them both over the rim. "So do I."


	11. Chapter 11

_Sorry this is a bit of a filler chapter - Aedan's usual awesomeness will be back next time we meet him I promise :). Still waiting for the child to make its exit although my acupuncturist tells me it will be before Monday, so there could be a bit of a delay on the next few Chapters of both Shades and Fractures. Not much of one though! I'm planning on taking my moleskin into hospital with me!_

_

* * *

_

"I would have thought there'd be a ceremony or _something," _Anders said.

Aedan rolled his eyes at the mage. "The Wardens do what is necessary, Anders," he said shortly. "In this case, it's necessary that Nathaniel take over. We don't need to make a song and dance of it, so we won't."

The mage tutted and leaned back in his chair. It was just the five of them - Oghren, Nathaniel, Anders, Sigrun and Aedan, in the office of the keep. The surviving wardens. Although Aedan didn't like to include the mage, there was no denying his skills and he was a senior warden - would remain so in Ferelden by simple longevity of service until more Orlesians got there, and much as he disliked Anders he much preferred to have the man in charge of the Ferelden mages than someone foreign. Nathaniel seemed to have the man's measure - better than he did in any case. The two didn't exactly get along, but Anders certainly treated the eldest Howe with more respect than he ever treated Aedan. Perhaps they could reach some sort of understanding.

Or he could arrange to have the man shipped to Avernus for research. _There _was an idea. He'd have to see how much trouble the man caused Nathaniel.

"Your first priority, all of you, is recruitment," Aedan said, leaning back in his chair. "To that end I want Anders to travel to the circle, first, Sigrun and Oghren to Orzammar afterwards and Nathaniel can drum up some interest from the Knights around the various Arlings. We need at least fifty wardens stationed here by the end of the year. _Ferelden _wardens."

"Only fifty?" Nathaniel said. "You don't think we could use a few more?"

"We'll have fifty of our own and at least another fifty from the Anderfels, Orlais and Antiva. I want an even mix - it's in my last letter to Weisshaupt."

"Still, a hundred doesn't seem like that many, considering the size of the horde," Sigrun said.

"When Duncan ran the order there were only ever a hundred wardens in Ferelden," Aedan said. "I don't want to stretch those numbers." He didn't mention his main concern - that technically the Wardens were _not _under his control and more than a hundred of them amounted to an independent army on his land. Nathaniel's loyalty he was almost completely certain of, but once the wardens passed out of his control, Weisshaupt would have the power to appoint the next Commander if it should feel the need.

Usually they left the appointment of Commander to the native Wardens, but there were occasions when that hadn't been the case. They had been more than willing to appoint an Orlesian to the post originally, and Aedan would _not _stand for that.

Sigrun didn't look happy - and neither did Oghren. He supposed they thought the burden of fighting the darkspawn would continue to rest on their people - a people who could ill afford to lose more men and women of an age to breed.

"Without the Architect around to wake up any more archdemons early, I doubt there'll be another Blight here for a few hundred years in any case," Aedan continued. "Your job will be to eliminate any stragglers from his experiments for the next few years and get the darkspawn back under control. A hundred Wardens should be more than enough for those purposes."

Nathaniel was standing near the doorway, his arms crossed around his chest and his expression unreadable. He nodded firmly as Aedan got to his feet. "Well, your highness," he said softly. "It's been a pleasure working with you."

Aedan snorted. "You're terminally polite, Nathaniel," he said. "Nothing like your father at all. It hasn't been a pleasure, but I'm happy we've met. Look after the Wardens. I'll be in touch when I get to Denerim."

"Give our regards to your lovely wife," Anders said.

"Hur Hur," Oghren muttered under his breath.

Aedan quashed his first desire, which was to part the dwarf and the mage's heads from their shoulders with Vigilance, and pursed his lips instead. "I shall."

* * *

The trip back to Denerim was uneventful and Aedan was grateful. The past few months had been exhausting, physically and mentally. He was glad to be leaving the Wardens behind - glad to be going back to a life he was at least used to.

But the land was not in good shape. His preoccupation with the darkspawn threat had blinded him somewhat to the problems of the surrounding countryside. Amaranthine's farmers had been more concerned with protecting their lives than their crops and the weather had not been kind. Aedan was well enough acquainted with agriculture to see that this year's crops would not be sufficient for the Arling's needs. Another reason why Nathaniel was a good choice for Arl and Commander - the man knew what was necessary in tough times - he had been trained as a noble as had Aedan.

The rest of Ferelden was not fairing any better, however. Indeed, were it not for the darkspawn in Amaranthine they would have been doing better than the rest of the country. Drought and Blight had devastated the land and the people were beginning to feel the pinch.

Denerim's streets were grim and subdued. Aedan made his way to the palace in an unmarked carriage, but he got the feeling he needn't have bothered. The people he did see were furtive and hurried to get back inside.

Anora met him at the palace gates. Her usually clear eyes were clouded with worry and strain and he realised the past six months had probably been as hard on her as they had on him. She embraced him. It took a moment for him to adjust, slide back into attentive husband rather than aloof Commander and he was stiff at first, but he managed to smooth the tension out of his body and return the embrace before she became suspicious.

"It's good to have you back," she said, and she sounded harsher as well. In the weeks before and after their marriage they had come to a certain state of affection that seemed to have bled away in his absence. He felt a surge of irritation that he'd probably have to work at building it up again. Not that it was essential for their relationship, but an Anora who loved him was far more likely to give him greater controls than one who was simply cordial. He'd worked hard at softening her and it was disappointing to realise that the effort was going to have to be ongoing.

"It's good to be back," he said, brushing a strand of blond hair from her cheek and giving her his most charming smile. She relented, then, and smiled back at him, taking his hand in hers as they walked back to the palace.

"Eamon wants to talk to you about the Alienage," she said, and her voice was grim. "He thinks he can convince you to go easy on the elves. There have been food riots and he objects to my plan to crack down on them."

_Ah, _Aedan thought. _Eamon is pushing it. How much easier it would have been for him to have his puppet king. _He felt a surge of pride in Anora, that she'd stood up to him.

"Do you want him removed as Chancellor?" he asked. They were making towards their bedchamber, he noticed, and _not _his office.

A small smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. "Having him here is a good way to placate those who still think Maric's bastard should have taken the throne," she said. "He _is _Rowan's brother. No, he can stay as Chancellor. By all accounts Bann Teagan is doing a good job of looking after Redcliffe. We might make that appointment permanent."

"As you wish. But if he gives you too much trouble..."

"I can handle him," she said. "And it will help, having you here as well."

He squeezed her hand. "I'm not planning on leaving again," he said. "The Wardens are safely passed on now. I shouldn't have to be caught up with them again."

They reached their bedchamber and Anora sat on their bed, watching him remove his outer clothing. The journey had not been particularly onerous, but he was still covered with the dust of the road and it felt good to wash his face and hands and wet his hair. She watched him, one eyebrow raised and her arms across her chest.

"About the Wardens," she said. "Do you really think it was a good idea to put Nathaniel _Howe _in charge? When your missive got here I'm surprised you couldn't hear the shrieks from the Dragon's Peak clan in Amaranthine."

"Nathaniel is... well he's not much like his father," Aedan said. "He spent most of the past decade out of the country. Truly, my love, he is a fine choice to lead the wardens."

She nodded. "I didn't think you would have appointed him if you thought otherwise," she said.

Aedan turned to her, leaning against the vanity and cocking his eyebrow. She matched his expression. There was no doubt she had more than talk on her mind, but it had been some time since they had seen one another. Much of the awkwardness that surrounded their first few days of marriage had returned. He considered his options, considered the woman sitting in front of him, then shrugged.

In two quick strides he closed the distance between them, wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her up into a bruising kiss. She gasped into him, bringing her hands up to his chest as though to push him away, her entire body tense. He pulled back and looked at her, still trapped in his arms. Her face showed outrage, but she had stopped trying to pull away. He allowed himself a small smile and he felt some of the tension leak out of her body.

"We have been apart for some time," she said. "I am sorry if..."

"Cailan was a fool," he said forcefully, holding tight onto her with one arm while he brought his hand up to her face and stroked her cheek. "You deserve much, much more than he could ever give you."

She blushed and turned her face to the side. He took her chin, slightly more roughly than was necessary, and watched her reactions for any fear. There was none, and as her lips parted he could feel the trip of her pulse under her skin. _Good, _he thought, and bent his lips to hers again.

_Very good indeed._


	12. Chapter 12

"You had no _business _trying to transform without checking with me first!" Morrigan shouted at the young apprentice. She was writhing on the ground in pain and Morrigan with Ceindrech in a sling on her front was shocked at how angry she was with the girl, even in pain as she was. "I told you, getting even _one detail _of the animal wrong could kill you. Do you listen to _nothing _that I say?"

She felt a hand on her shoulder and spun to see Xanthi standing behind her, an amused smile on her face. "Morrigan, the girl has paid... is paying for her mistake. You do not need to continue to abuse her. And I doubt that she's listening in any case."

"The level of foolishness in your apprentices continues to astonish me, Xanthi," Morrigan said as the Keeper knelt at the child's side and began to cast healing magic. Berwinna had attempted the transformation into a hala - a form that Morrigan had scoffed at as being useless - and had inevitably managed to leave out pertinent details in the process, causing severe internal pain and possible broken bones. Morrigan was not the best healer, but she had done the same and knew exactly how much pain such a failed transformation caused.

"They need to try," Xanthi said softly as she worked. "And a painful lesson is often far better learned. Surely you did the same, when you were younger?"

Morrigan shrugged and looked away, unwilling to admit to the other woman that she had been in the same position. More than once. Most unwilling to admit that she now understood Flemeth's anger on those occasions. Ceindrech, sensing her mood, began to fuss.

"Get her to come to me when she is better," Morrigan sighed, looking down into the screwed up face of her daughter. "I must go."

The apprentice had lapsed into sleep and Xanthi got to her feet. "Morrigan, it's not safe for you to live so far apart from the clan," she said. "I wish you would reconsider where you place your home."

"I need solitude, Xanthi," Morrigan said. "And peace. To study."

"Solitude and peace will not help you if you are attacked by a bear," Xanthi said.

"No," Morrigan said dryly. "That's what ice spells and traps are for."

"Not even magic is infallible, Morrigan."

"I do not have to justify my living arrangements to you, Keeper," Morrigan said. "I am grateful for your help and your willingness to let me live amongst your people. In return, all I ask is for some privacy."

Xanthi sighed, looking down at the now peaceful sleeping form of the apprentice. "That mother of yours did irreparable damage, Morrigan."

"So I keep telling you," she snapped back. "Now if you'll excuse me."

Xanthi rolled her eyes, but did not object when Morrigan left the Dalish camp. She seethed on the trip back to her hut. Xanthi was bothersome, interfering, and worst of all, usually _right. _The apprentices looked up to Morrigan as someone with greater knowledge, but their _respect, _well, it went to the Keeper.

Morrigan found it difficult to admit to herself that she craved that respect for herself. She wished for the apprentices to give the same deference to her as they gave to Xanthi, but she did not have the first idea of how to foster it. Oh, they were always polite and followed her instructions - usually - but Morrigan knew that they behaved and listened because Xanthi had told them to, not because of how she interacted with them.

If they had the same respect for her as they had for their Keeper, Berwinna would not have done what she had done.

If Morrigan had the respect the apprentices had for their Keeper for her own mother, perhaps she would not have had to spend three days in agony when her own first transformation had gone awry. At least Berwinna had been healed by her Keeper. Morrigan well remembered her mother's face, when she begged for an end to the pain.

_Perhaps this will teach you what I, obviously, cannot._

It was about half an hour's tramp through the woods to her tent, which was set near enough to a small stream for her to collect her own water with no difficulty. She had found after the first few weeks of living in camp that the constant noise of the Dalish living around her was intolerable and the propensity for Xanthi or any of her apprentices to enter without giving any warning infuriating. Even on the road during the Blight her companions had not been so inconsiderate of her privacy.

She could not fault the generosity of the Dalish otherwise, however. She had brought little with her on her flight from Ferelden - traveling as an apostate was always risky and she had spent most of her time, aside from the ship journey, in various animal forms not suited to carrying much in the way of possessions. By the end of the journey, when shapeshifting was no longer possible due to her advancing pregnancy, she had managed to acquire new robes and a staff - enough to protect herself should she be attacked, and she still carried both of Flemeth's grimoires, but apart from that, her store of possessions had been meagre on her arrival.

Xanthi and the Dalish had provided her with clothing - equipment for herbal work, even paper and pens despite the two being almost unheard of in the Antivan forests. Her tent was furnished with a comfortable cot, big enough for herself and Ceindrech, animal skins and cooking utensils. In all, she was richer in possessions than she had ever been.

Ceindrech was nearly two months old now. Her eyes had settled to closely resemble Morrigan's own, although her hair had darkened somewhat until it was almost exactly the shade of her father's. She was making cooing noises and smiling at her mother and Morrigan felt at times crushed by the level of feeling she had for the child.

Her spare time - when Ceindrech was sleeping and she was not pestered by apprentices, was spent pouring over Flemeth's grimoire. The passages to do with the archdemon soul were frustratingly obscure, even for her mother.

_The soul is of the body, but is not the body. Bodies shape souls in the same way a glass shapes the liquid inside it. The older the soul - the more bodies it has worn - the more difficult it is for the body to shape the soul - the truer form of the soul will emerge and as such the soul is more powerful. Mages are thus. But if a soul has only ever held one shape that soul is more open to manipulation than one that has shared many, no matter what its age._

Morrigan took that to mean that the soul in her daughter's body would in fact _not _be aware of its previous existence - that it would need encouragement or training if it was to pass on any knowledge of the old gods to her. But it was just vague enough for her to be worried - the old gods were ancient - no one knew how long the dragons had lived before they had been trapped. Certainly, Ceindrech showed no sign of being anything other than a normal child, but perhaps the soul in her tiny body was canny enough to realise its physical limitations. Perhaps, once it had reached a certain age, its true nature would manifest, and Morrigan and the others around her would be in danger...

Although she wouldn't admit it, this was another reason she preferred to live apart from the Dalish. She did not want the people who had helped her to suffer needlessly.

When she arrived back at her tent she nursed Ceindrech to sleep and placed her in their cot, lighting her lamps and returning to her study of her mother's grimoire. It took painstaking effort to untangle the wanderings of her ancient mind. Not only did Flemeth write in cypher, but she wrote randomly - there was no order to her entries. Often a spell would be hidden amongst pages of gibberish describing fade dreams where Flemeth was young or encounters with Kings and Wardens.

Morrigan had no doubt this was done deliberately on her mother's part. The woman had always appeared crazed to anyone who spoke with her, but Morrigan knew she was anything but.

It was an hour later when Berwinna hesitantly coughed outside her tent. Morrigan sighed and called for her to enter.

The young elven apprentice was not usually a timid person. Her silvery hair and delicate features hid an iron will and a great deal of power - one of the reasons Morrigan had been pleased she'd been so enthusiastic about learning the shapeshifter's arts.

Her disgust at her first choice of form had grudgingly given way to respect as the elf worked hard on learning everything she needed to learn. Morrigan had honestly believed the girl wouldn't make the same mistakes she had made under her mother's tutelage.

In truth, she had assumed she would be a better teacher.

"Berwinna," she said, closing her mother's grimoire and shifting on her stool to face the apprentice.

"Morrigan," Berwinna said. "What can I say?"

"An apology would be a good start," she said. "Did you listen to nothing that I told you?"

"Of course I listened," Berwinna replied, although her tone was humble rather than strident. "But I believed I had mastered the form."

Morrigan sighed. "Perhaps I was not firm enough in my warnings. I asked you to come to me so I could confirm you had mastered all of the aspects you needed to. I should probably have told you exactly what awaited had you failed."

Berwinna winced. "I don't think a warning would have been adequate to explain... _that.._" she said.

Morrigan felt her lips twitch in amusement. "True," she said. "Xanthi seems to think you have suffered enough for your mistake. And perhaps the other apprentices will not be so foolish, having seen you fail."

"I hope so," the apprentice replied. "I..."

A noise from outside the tent distracted them both. Morrigan felt the tug at her power that meant one of her traps had been triggered. She glanced at Ceindrech - still peacefully asleep, then at Berwinna. "Stay here and watch her?" she said softly. Berwinna nodded, her lower lip caught in her teeth. Morrigan gathered her staff from where it stood near the tent flap and ducked outside.

At first she could see nothing, then, an all too familiar growl made her snap her head around to the right, just in time to be rushed by...

..._darkspawn..._


	13. Chapter 13

Recruiting wasn't going as well as he would have liked. Anders' trip to the circle had been met with scorn from Greagior, although Anders had managed to bring back two harrowed mages who had potential, only one had survived the joining. When Nathaniel had bemoaned the number, Anders had patiently explained that the Grey Wardens had never before asked for more than one mage at a time - he had been lucky to find the two he had.

It seemed they would be relying on attracting apostates if they wished for more mage wardens. Although Anders was turning out to be surprisingly intelligent and stable, he was almost certain the man was the exception to the rule when it came to apostates. He wasn't a blood mage, either - that much had become obvious the one time the man had been injured in battle. Other people's blood he had no difficulty with - his own - how did he put it? "I prefer my blood on the inside.."

Weisshaupt wanted him to name a second, and although he knew and Anders knew who it was in reality he was forced to name the new soldier recruit - Timon - on the official letter back. Timon was almost certainly a stooge of Aedan's - he came from the palace guard and knew a surprisingly large amount about the joining ritual. Nathaniel took it as a compliment that Aedan did little to hide the fact that Timon was reporting directly to him on a regular basis. It also made him cautious. There was no reason to think Aedan would have only _one _spy amongst his ranks.

There was no doubt Timon was a competent warden and a good leader. Nathaniel planned to make good use of his talents.

Sigrun and Oghren were absent recruiting in Orzammar. The first contingent of Orlesian and Antivan wardens were due to arrive in the following week - each order had happily agreed to their request for wardens, although again neither offered mages, only a mixture of rogues and warriors. It seemed his difficulties were common to all wardens.

What was troubling him now, however, was a letter from Aedan, requesting that one of the new foreign recruits be sent to Soldier's Peak. The letter was vague. _To assess the possible renovation and restoration of the outpost. _That the letter had arrived during Ogrhen's absence disturbed Nathaniel. Although the dwarf had not been present with Aedan and his party on their expedition there during the blight, he would have more of an idea what to expect there than Nathaniel did, and he didn't feel comfortable sending _one _recruit to scout the place, especially seeing as there was a possibility the veil was still torn.

The knock at his door startled him. He'd forgotten he'd asked for Anders to join him as soon as he could.

The mage had sulked for a few days after Oghren and Sigrun had left. Nathaniel hadn't quite been able to puzzle out the relationship between the mage and the legionnaire - they weren't lovers as far as he could tell, although Nathaniel got the impression the mage certainly wouldn't object to the relationship taking that turn. Their constant flirtations had irritated Aedan beyond measure and part of Nathaniel suspected they continued with them out of habit - the two had made no secret of their dislike for the former Commander. Nathaniel, sick of the man's moping, had given him the task of tracking down rumours of apostates in the area which he had taken up enthusiastically. With only one other mage warden he had little in the way of other duties to occupy him. Nathaniel suspected an idle Anders would only cause trouble at the keep.

"You rang?" Anders said, settling languidly into a chair with his ridiculously named cat curling around his shoulders.

"Indeed," Nathaniel said. "I've had word from Aedan." The mage's expression hardened suddenly, the mask of indifference and good humour replaced by serious intelligence.

"And?"

"He wants us to send one of the new recruits to Soldiers' Peak," Nathaniel said, handing the letter to the mage, who scanned it quickly.

"Just the one?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "Seems strange. Especially seeing as the veil is almost certainly still thin."

"That's what I wanted to ask you about," Nathaniel continued. "Has Oghren ever talked to you about what happened there?"

Anders nodded, pulling on his earring in thought. "Only briefly," he said. "He said the veil was torn by Sophia Dryden and her wardens during the rebellion. Aedan didn't tell him anything else about it."

"Did he mention who was with Aedan when he visited the Peak?" Nathaniel asked.

"The golem, Shale... the apostate witch I think. And Sten, the qunari."

Nathaniel snorted. "Of course. He would have taken the only three members of the party we have no hope of contacting." Nathaniel leaned back in his chair. "I don't like this, Anders. I don't think one warden recruit is enough to do this investigation - and I especially don't think one _new _recruit should be trusted with the job. I almost certainly think there should be a mage with the party at least."

"Do you want me to go?"

"Aedan specifically says to only send one," he said. "But yes. I do want you to go. We're going to have to keep it quiet though. When the Orlesians get here I want you to pick the most reliable to accompany you - someone who's skills compliment yours. I'll send them first, then you can catch up to them on the road. We'll make up some story about you being called back to the circle so Aedan doesn't suspect anything."

"Just the two of us?"

Nathaniel shrugged. "I can't risk sending any more without Aedan finding out," Nathaniel said. "I need to know what the situation there is - if it's dangerous, pull out immediately."

"Define dangerous," Anders said.

Nathaniel allowed himself a small smile. "I think you know dangerous well enough to recognise it when you see it," he said.

Anders nodded, smiling back. "When do the Orlesians arrive?"

"Next week. Antivans as well."

"Oh, lovely," Anders said, a glint creeping into his eyes.

"Make sure you pick someone who's suited to the _job _Anders, not just... suited."

The mage spread out his hands. "You try to ruin my fun, but really, fun is easy to find."

Nathaniel rolled his eyes.

* * *

She was perfect for the job. Hard, wizened and cynical. Nathaniel had chosen well. Anders was grumpy about it, but he supposed it was for the best - Sigrun would be back when he returned and he really wasn't certain he wanted to burn any bridges with the dwarf. Still, she was duster born and the few other dwarves Anders had been involved with over the years (necessarily briefly) seemed to take casual liaisons almost as easily as mages...

...No. Sigrun was special. He didn't want to start anything with anyone until she got back from Orzammar. So really the two handed warrior who would be traveling with him to Soldier's Peak was a perfect choice.

Francesca was anything but casual. And she was nearing forty. And she was _incredibly scary. _Nathaniel had chosen her because she had experience with mages. She wasn't a templar, but she knew some templar tricks (it seemed more than one chantry initiate had seen the Grey Wardens as a better bet than lyrium addiction and madness) and she was undoubtably the most skilled with swords Anders had ever seen.

He would be remarkably safe with her. From physical attacks, in any case.

Funnily enough, the Circle had given him a way to leave the keep without any suspicion falling on him. After his somewhat abortive attempt at recruiting mages they had invited him back to talk about the Architect, so he would be leaving the day after Francesca in order to go to the circle. No one would blink about the fact that he never showed up... one good thing about having a reputation for finding it difficult to obey orders... and no one would truly wonder where it was he was going. He liked to wander free. It was his nature.

Francesca had to be told, of course. Although Nathaniel didn't mention that Aedan had specifically ordered only one warden to go to Soldiers' Peak. He simply said that Anders would be joining her on the journey a few days out of Amaranthine. The junior wardens had no contact with the Prince Consort, so it should be safe enough once she was away from the keep.

Anders watched the warrior leave the morning before his own departure from the window of his room. The little he'd heard about the old warden fortress from Ogrhen was enough to make his blood run cold. All those wardens - killed. Blood magic. Demons.

He hoped whatever Aedan had done there had contained the horrors. He was fully prepared to admit that in _that _thought he was being optimistic.


	14. Chapter 14

"Remind me why we're doing this again?" Alistair hissed as Leliana deftly picked the lock on yet another house in the richest district of Antiva city. They were in a back alley and the door led to the servant's quarters.

"We need Zevran's help," she said. "Or rather, _you _need Zevran's help. I am still not completely certain why _I _amdoing it at all." There was a soft click as the lock succumbed to her ministrations.

"Why do master crows always live in such expensive houses?" Alistair mused, pulling at the collar on his shirt. They were dressed in fine court attire and while there was no denying watching Leliana work, from behind, when she was wearing the blue silk gown Zevran had acquired for her did a lot to make this a novelty he enjoyed, he found the feeling of cloth surrounding his neck almost unbearably irritating. Gorgets and breastplates didn't chafe as much. They were there to stop you getting beheaded, not to slowly strangle you in fashion.

"I think you will find that _these _master crows live here because they've always wanted to," Leliana said as she straightened and smoothed down her skirts. "Remember poor Zevran was a slave for most of his life. I would not be surprised if most crows have similar back stories. Once they reach a position where they can afford the good things in life, why not indulge?"

"But Zevran lives in an old warehouse..."

"Zevran's more intelligent than these people," Leliana said, grinning a little. Alistair noted the quirk of her lips and wondered for a moment if there had been any truth to Zevran's implication that the two of them had been lovers. They would have had to be _very _discreet to manage it without anyone noticing. Aedan and Morrigan hadn't. But then Leliana was a bard and Zevran was an assassin...

He shook his head, trying to clear a sudden image from it that did nothing for his concentration. Leliana was looking at him expectantly and he nodded. She pushed open the door - it moved silently thanks to newly oiled hinges _you'd be surprised how many break-ins are ruined by squeaky doors, Alistair - _and they stepped inside.

Music from the ball was filtering down even here. The servants quarters were empty - all working - and Leliana and Alistair were able to slip through the hallways unnoticed until they found the main hall where the festivities were taking place. Alistair straightened and took Leliana's arm awkwardly - he'd never been to functions like this and it had taken some time for Leliana to school him in how he needed to behave - and they entered the room.

There was little chance that their target wouldn't notice their arrival - he was a crow after all - but the rest of his guests didn't know that which was why Lelli had figured this was the best way to gain his attention. He wouldn't risk attacking them in front of his guests. More likely they'd be whisked away by his guards and interviewed later - _if _the guards could get to them before they could get to the target. Alistair was hoping Leliana was as good as he thought she was. Subtlety was not his strong point.

He was amazed, though, at the change that came over her. Her fighter's stance disappeared and was replaced by a... quite simply _mesmerising _walk that did amazing things with hips and legs he didn't even know women were capable of. She tossed her head back and her blue eyes flashed with pleasure. He could have sworn every male eye - and some of the female ones too - turned in her direction as she entered the room.

Even though they were there under cover with the intention of possibly killing someone, Alistair felt the spell she wove almost as keenly as the other people in the room. He couldn't help feeling a little smug that _he _was the one with his hand on her arm.

"You know, if you'd used that on the darkspawn we would have had a much easier time in the Deep Roads," he hissed to her.

"Unfortunately it does not work on darkspawn," she whispered back to him. "And even here, there are some who are immune." She pointed them out with subtle tilts of her head. A man in the corner, leaning casually, eyeing them with not a trace of desire. A woman near one of the tables, twirling a goblet in her fingers. And one man, near the head of the room. Obviously the host of the party. He was in the middle of getting to his feet when they entered.

"We'll need to be fast," she said to him as they made their way up to the front of the room. The man and the woman she had pointed out were on the move as well - they would all reach the host at the same time.

Five paces from the host Leliana freed herself from him and spread her arms widely. "Alessandro _darling..." _she said in her loudest, most charming voice, then trailed off into a string of Antivan that Alistair couldn't even begin to make out. Needless to say the two bodyguards hesitated under her onslaught of charm. Alessandro himself blinked in confusion as she approached him and embraced him before anyone else could react. Only Alistair and Alessandro himself, however, would have noticed the tiny dagger she pressed to the man's side as she whispered in his ear seductively. The man's grey eyes widened in sudden fear and understanding as Leliana ushered him away from the two bodyguards. Alistair followed with a slightly bemused smile on his face - his role was to "look pretty but stupid and hit things as necessary" which he was not finding at all difficult considering the rapidity of Leliana's work.

She had been absolutely right when she'd said he could never be a bard. There was far, far more to it than simply sneaking around in the dark. And some of it involved hips. Last he checked he didn't have any. At least - not the sort that _she _did.

He wondered if there were any _male _bards in Orlais. And if there were what they used instead of hips.

Leliana ushered Alessandro into a corridor and up a flight of stairs - Zevran had provided them with detailed maps of the interior of the house - and into a room that could only be the master bedroom. Alistair had thought that Zevran's office in the warehouse had been opulent - it was nothing to the luxury and expense lavished on the room they found themselves in. He guessed the bedspread alone would be worth more gold than Alistair had ever seen in his relatively short life.

Alessandro let out a stream of Antivan as they entered the room, babbling in what sounded like fear. Leliana, who's mask of charm had vanished as soon as they left the dining hall, shoved him against the bed and put her hands on her hips.

"For the benefit of my companion," she said softly, and there was no menace in the tone, "I would ask that you speak in Ferelden for now. I understand you are fluent."

"Of..of course I am," he spluttered. "What are you doing in my house? Who are you? My guards will be here any moment and you will both be killed!"

Indeed, as he spoke the door behind them opened and the man and woman from the dining hall entered, weapons drawn. He didn't even see Leliana move, but the man's arm was suddenly pinned to the wall next to the doorframe with a dagger. Alistair didn't hesitate but swung his fist and hit the woman in the side of the head - felling her instantly.

The male guard, to give him credit, wasn't screaming in pain, although the dagger had pierced his palm. He was however, making a valiant effort to free himself, so Alistair took the time to knock him unconscious, pulling the dagger free as he fell to stop it from completely ruining the man's hand. They weren't _cruel _after all.

"Your guards," Alistair said, "leave a lot to be desired."

"I have more," Alessandro said, although his tone was uncertain and his face was decidedly pale.

"And these two obviously called for them before coming to your rescue?" Leliana said. Alessandro's throat worked as he swallowed, letting them know exactly how likely that was.

"What do they want?" he asked. _They, _Alistair noted. He was obviously intelligent enough to realise the only people attacking him would be his employers.

"The Master of the Crows wishes to be assured of your loyalty," Leliana said. "He understands you and several of your colleagues have been... taking contracts from sources other than him. He wishes this to stop."

Alessandro snorted. "Master of the Crows, is it?" he said. "Someone should tell Zevran one does not get to that position as easily as he thinks."

"You doubt Zevran's authority?" Alistair said.

"There is another who has equal claim to the title," Alessandro said.

"Who?"

"Do I look insane?" Alessandro said. "I cannot tell you."

"Do you want to look dead instead?" Alistair said. "Because we can certainly arrange that."

"There are fates worse than death, my friend," the Crow said.

"People bandy that phrase about a lot," Alistair said. "But truly, it _totally _depends on the _type of death.."_

Alessandro's face twisted and he sat on the bed. "I assume the others told you nothing," he said finally.

Leliana cocked an eyebrow. "How do you know we've seen anyone else?"

Alessandro shrugged. "I am hardly the first on any list," he said, smiling a little ruefully. "But I shall tell you the same as undoubtably they told you. Zevran will get nothing from us until he meets Ignacio."

"Ignacio is not the person from whom you take orders," Leliana said.

"No. He is not. But he and _only he _can tell Zevran who it is. There is no use putting me to torture. I do not know the identity of my master. Only Ignacio can help Zevran, and only if Zevran goes to him personally."

Alistair had to resist a strong urge to punch the wall. This was the fourth crow they'd come to, and the fourth person to tell them the same thing. They were wasting time. Zevran had asked them to do this because he didn't feel he could trust any of the crows in his employ. It was beginning to look like he was right.

"Are you going to kill me now?" Alessandro asked. Alistair had to give him credit for the lack of fear in his voice.

Leliana smiled her most charming smile at him and lifted her hand in front of his face. She snapped the vial she carried under the man's nose and watched as he inhaled involuntarily.

The drug was fast acting and Alessandro fell backwards on the bed, unconscious in seconds. "No," Leliana said as he fell. She turned to Alistair, weariness clear on her face. "So, my friend," she said. "Shall we to Zevran?"

Alistair nodded, feeling just as weary as she looked. "Do you think he'll be satisfied now?" he asked. Leliana shrugged.

"Alessandro was the last on our list," she said. "Unless Zevran has others he suspects of working for this alternative master, our work is done."

"I'm sure he can find something else for us to do," Alistair said bitterly as they made their way back out of the estate. "He seems determined to keep us in Antiva City. Perhaps he just doesn't want to find the Dalish?"

"We are asking him to contact his mother's clan," Leliana said. "It may be... difficult for him, given her end."

They exited through the front door of the estate, the other guests hardly noticing the absence of their host. The heat and humidity of the night hit him like a wall and he felt frustration boiling in his chest. It was taking too long. His dreams were getting more and more troubling and urgent and he felt a little like ants were crawling under his skin. He needed to be _moving, _he needed to be _finding his daughter. _

_No more jobs, Zevran, _he thought to himself as they walked back towards the Crow warehouse. _It's time for _you_ to help _me.


	15. Chapter 15

_I keep forgetting to write this intro to new chapters, finally managed to remember. All went well with birth of #2 - healthy fat baby boy who is now busy depriving myself and my husband of sleep and sanity. As expected my writing time has been severely reduced, although not nearly as much as I feared. The biggest problem is my endless distraction from Anders prompts to be honest - I just can't seem to resist them. In any case, back on track. I have to thank the ladies who are writing "The Brewmaster's Daughter" (it's being published on the BSN forums for those who are interested - a collaborative fic of which I wrote the first chapter and will be writing more down the track) for the introduction of Kylon in this chapter - I wanted a different perspective on Aedan and wasn't quite willing to delve into the mind of Anora (at least, not yet) and the estimable Sergeant has now become a fixture in my mind - expect to see a bit more of him later on!_

_Again, I must thank all who read and review._

_

* * *

_

Until-recently-Sergeant (now Captain) Kylon of the Denerim city guard, waited somewhat nervously outside the Prince Consort's office to be called. He fingered the hilt of his broadsword, remembering meeting the man for the first time more than a year ago in the Denerim market district. He'd been impressed by his air of competence, and more than grateful for his help in settling the city.

These days he knew the man only through the orders he received from the Crown. He wasn't sure why, this time, he had to receive those orders in person. Usually a written missive or a messenger from the Palace was enough to let him do his duty. One of the things he admired about the Cousland Warden's administration was his willingness to let jobs be done by the people who knew how to do them. Details were not important. Results were what mattered.

Of course, should the results be unsatisfactory he had a reputation for punishing those who were not cautious or efficient in their handling of details.

Kylon was good at handling details.

An elven servant emerged from the office and motioned Kylon in. Kylon had a moment to notice that the elf looked pinched and worn around the eyes. Most of them did, these days. Not that the humans and dwarves were fairing much better, but he was well aware that shipments into the alienage were somewhat... lighter than those that reached the rest of the city. Kylon had no trouble with elves - despite what the humans thought they actually caused very little trouble in the main city - their crimes, tragically, tended to be committed against each other rather than the other inhabitants of the city under his charge.

Aedan Cousland's office was much like the man himself - spare and ascetic. The only decoration was a large commissioned painting of the hero Loghain, mortally wounded, striking the killing blow to the archdemon. Aedan was conspicuously absent from the image and Kylon wondered if there was any truth to the rumour that it had in fact been the Prince Consort who killed the beast, the glory given to his father-in-law in the interest of deflecting attention away from his other actions during the Blight.

The Prince Consort looked up and fixed him with cold blue eyes as he entered. Kylon was not intimidated, he had faced the eyes of drunk madmen and taint crazed refugees - even the mad, wild eyes of the darkspawn during the Blight. However, there was no doubt Aedan Cousland was a powerful man. He carried it well, too, the sharp line of his jaw and the tilt of his head spoke of a man born to command.

_Yet he was the second son, _Kylon thought to himself. _Never destined to be anything other than a minor Bann. If it weren't for the Blight that talent would have gone to waste._

"Kylon, it's good to see you again," Aedan said, motioning for him to stand in front of his desk. Sitting in red steel chain with a broadsword on your back wasn't exactly practical.

"Ser," Kylon said.

Aedan cocked an eyebrow. "I think now, 'Your Highness' is the correct form of address, Kylon," he said dryly.

Kylon swallowed. The honorific had come out automatically. The man oozed _military _from every pore and Kylon had found himself responding like the raw recruit he had once been. "My apologies, your highness," he said.

The man smiled. "No matter," Aedan said. "You're no doubt wondering why I called you here, rather than giving you your orders in writing?"

"I am, your highness."

"This is a somewhat delicate matter, Kylon," the Prince Consort continued. "In my recent absence it seems that Ferelden has fallen on hard times. We are stretched for resources - extremely stretched - and many of our people are suffering because of it."

"I am aware, your highness."

"In particular... the occupants of the Alienage have been... unsettled. I understand you've been particularly efficient in your handling of the food riots there."

Kylon winced internally. Efficient was one way of putting it. If he closed his eyes he could still see the blood on his sword. Only one - he'd killed only one of them. But he'd still killed her. For the crime of being _hungry._

"I have done my duty, your highness," he said.

"Admirably," Aedan said. "I understand also that Arl Eammon had words with you regarding your handling of the matter."

Kylon kept his face carefully blank. Yes, the Arl had indeed had _words _with Kylon following that incident. Kylon had stood mute in front of the angry torrent, guilty but knowing full well there had been nothing else he could have done. If that woman hadn't rushed him, hadn't died, the elves would have broken out of the alienage and wreaked havoc among the rest of the populace. There was no telling how many others would have been killed in the riots. Innocents _just like she was. _But Kylon couldn't bring himself to defend himself to the Arl.

"He did, your highness."

"I want you to know that the Queen and I fully endorse your actions in the Alienage. If for whatever reason the Arl chooses to take exception to you carrying out your duties, you are to report it to me. He overstepped the bounds of his authority when he took you to task for doing a difficult job. I wanted to apologise to you - to let you know that you have royal support."

Kylon blinked. He didn't know exactly what he had expected, coming here to the Palace, but an _apology _certainly hadn't been anywhere near his list.

"Furthermore," Aedan continued, shuffling some papers on his desk, "should more of the same occur, I expect that your actions will be similarly, if not even more, effective."

Something twisted in Kylon's gut. He had enough trouble sleeping at night at the moment as it was. And the Prince Consort expected him to do it _again? _There was no doubt he would have to. The food shortages were getting worse, not better. It wasn't a case of if another riot would break out, but _when. _

_If not even more effective... _

_He wants me to slaughter them._

Aedan was looking at him, the blue eyes seemed to bore into his soul. Kylon knew he was good at hiding his emotions - he'd had years and years of practice, but the gaze of this man seemed to tear him wide open. He felt as though every thought he'd ever had was laid out in front of the man. Logically, of course he couldn't know what Kylon was thinking, but he found himself pushing his thoughts as forcefully as possible to the back of his mind. He had never seen it before - too grateful for the help he offered - too blinded by the miasma of heroism - the man was _dangerous. _He felt like he was in the same room as a snake.

"Am I understood, Captain?" the Prince Consort was saying.

"Absolutely, your highness," Kylon replied.

"Excellent. You're dismissed."

Kylon had to stop himself from running from the room.

All the way back to the barracks his mind raced. He walked slowly, scanning the city as he did so - automatically looking out for trouble the way he had done for years. As his brain skittered from thought to thought like a panicked rabbit, he took note of the increase in beggars, the shabbiness of shopfronts, the evidence of poverty and hunger that was creeping over the city. He felt the harsh beat of the sun on the back of his neck, the way the air seemed to cry out for rain. People's faces had haunted, desperate looks that he knew would be mirrored in his own eyes, if he would only let his control lapse.

What could be done? Truly and honestly? If there were more food riots he would _have _to take the measures Aedan wanted him to. To protect his city - his people - he would have to sacrifice something he'd always believed was integral to his being.

_You've already done that, _he thought to himself. _When you killed her. _

By the time he reached the barracks he was exhausted. And he knew sleep would be a long, long time coming.


	16. Chapter 16

Her staff thrummed in her hand as she let loose mass paralysis - first step in all of her encounters - gauge the battlefield, _then _engage. There were at least ten of them, three of which had managed to resist her first spell - hurlocks, heavily armed and armoured. She followed up with a cone of cold to immobilise them and activated miasma, hoping she was far enough away from her tent that Ceindrech and Berwinna would be unaffected. Two hurlocks froze - the third kept coming. She darted forward, swinging her staff with all her strength at one of the frozen hurlocks and shattering it - a move she'd learned from Zevran - before spinning to the only hurlock still moving. It had slowed under the oppressive weight of her miasma but was still advancing. She injected a walking bomb into one of the paralyzed genlocks and shot off a stinging swarm at the moving hurlock and was abruptly out of mana.

She swung her staff at the remaining frozen hurlock, which also shattered. The mass paralysis only had a few more seconds and there was no way she would be able to take down the remaining spawn on her own. She reached into her robes and grabbed a lyrium potion, uncorking it, thankful for a moment to Aedan and her travels with him during the Blight. She never went anywhere without several blue vials of the liquid on her.

"Berwinna! Bring Ceindrech!" she yelled, then downed the potion. The keeper apprentice emerged a second later with the baby in her arms. "Run to camp!" To her credit, Berwinna didn't hesitate but sprinted sure-footed towards the clan. Morrigan backed in the same direction as quickly as she could, chanting under her breath. The first genlock was emerging from paralysis as Morrigan raised her staff to release a death cloud. She winced as the spell released - it would kill all the vegetation in the area as well as the darkspawn, but her other option - a firestorm - had the potential to set the entire forest aflame. Somehow she knew the Keeper would not forgive such an action - no matter how much danger she and her child were in.

Three genlocks emerged, coughing and weak, from the death cloud, moving towards her. She hoped the others were dead or dying behind them. She loosed three arcane bolts from her staff at the creatures before turning and sprinting after the keeper apprentice and her daughter.

She could hear sounds of stumbling pursuit behind her as she ran, but she knew that the creatures were weakened and wounded and hoped Berwinna had the presence of mind to alert the hunters as soon as she reached camp.

Sure enough, when she reached the camp, panting and drained, she was greeted by the sight of three elven archers, poised to fire. They let loose their arrows almost as soon as she was in sight and she actually felt one whizz by her ear. She stumbled, then, and almost fell, before the Keeper was there, holding her arm in one hand and her other palm outstretched. Green light flared and there was a rumble in the earth. Morrigan looked back to see the three genlocks pierced not just by arrows but by branches shooting from the earth. Behind them, two more hurlocks - one an emissary - _how had she not noticed that immediately -_ who had obviously recovered enough from her death cloud to join the pursuit, were caught by a hail of arrows from the hunters.

It was over. Morrigan, gasping, searched desperately for Berwinna. When she saw the elf with the babe in her arms she gave a wordless cry and rushed to her with her arms outstretched. Ceindrech was, incongruously, asleep, but Morrigan clutched her so tightly to her chest that she squirmed and almost woke in protest.

When finally she recovered enough to take stock of her surroundings she found the Keeper standing in front of her with her arms crossed over her chest. Xanthi's face was stern and Morrigan was reminded of Flemeth.

"We've used this campsite for hundreds of years," Xanthi said. "Never have the darkspawn come near us."

"The darkspawn are everywhere," Morrigan said. "They do not discriminate. Tis foolish to believe one is safe from them simply because one has never been attacked."

Xanthi frowned. "There are no deep roads under us - to get here they must have traveled long in the open air. Darkspawn do not do this. Unless there is a Blight."

Morrigan felt obscurely that she was being accused of something. "Keeper, they are dead. We are safe. Surely this is moot?"

"We shall move the camp," Xanthi said. "In case there are more. Kalia!" Xanthi turned to one of the hunters. "You need to inform the wardens. Go quickly and meet us at our midsummer camp."

The young female hunter nodded and sprinted away. The rest of the clan seemed to have been waiting for a signal, as they all turned and began to make ready for the move. "Inform the wardens?" Morrigan said.

Xanthi shrugged. "Darkspawn are their problem," she said. "We seldom encounter them. But when we do it is common sense to let the wardens know. It is unlikely to be another Blight so soon after the last, but if it were and we had not let the signs of it be known.."

Morrigan glanced down at Ceindrech's sleeping face, sudden fear for her child gripping her heart.

"I shall need to return to my tent," Morrigan said. Xanthi's frown deepened. "I need to collect my things, Xanthi," Morrigan snapped back. "If you don't mind."

"I should have thought this incident would make you more cautious," Xanthi said. "You shall not go alone."

"Are you volunteering to accompany me?" Morrigan asked.

"Yes," she replied simply.

Morrigan raised her eyebrow in surprise. "As you wish," she said. "Shall we go now?"

"I suggest you leave Ceindrech with Berwinna," Xanthi said.

Morrigan repressed an urge to zap the older woman. She was not so foolish as to put Ceindrech in danger again, having just gotten her to safety. Instead she nodded and passed the still sleeping child to the Keeper apprentice.

The darkspawn had trampled the earth in their haste to catch up to Morrigan. She could only guess at their motives - but the most likely explanation - that they were after females to become broodmothers - didn't ring true. Xanthi was correct, there were no entrances to the deep roads anywhere near the Dalish camp. Transporting prisoners in the open back to their lair would be totally impractical. The darkspawn didn't think ahead like that.

Her fingers itched to have her mother's grimoire in her hands again. Flemeth had assured her - _assured her _that there would be no danger to the child from darkspawn once it was born. The soul of the old god was not the old god itself.

But Flemeth had lied to her before. Over and over again she had lied. The grimoire held no hints of danger to the child - but Morrigan truly did not know what Flemeth had intended to do with her once she was born. Perhaps she'd intended to possess the child immediately - somehow fooling Morrigan into raising her own mother as her child? Maybe Flemeth knew some way to _repress _the siren song that Ceindrech must be broadcasting?

She clung to that hope desperately. She needed the grimoire - needed more than anything to find out if there was some way to stop her daughter from being a beacon to those hideous creatures. She resolved, as they walked, to share the grimoire with Xanthi. The Dalish Keeper was, in many ways, just as intelligent as Morrigan - with the added wiliness of age and experience. Perhaps she could see something in her mother's writing's that Morrigan could not...

When they got to the tent, however, Morrigan's heart clenched and she cried out in despair. Xanthi took in a breath of surprise and hurt at the ravaged landscape - the husks of trees and dead plants her death cloud had caused made the small clearing look like a twisted nightmare of the fade. But that was not what had drawn the cry from Morrigan. At the centre of the clearing was a blackened patch of earth. The darkspawn had burnt her tent to the ground - either intentionally or by accident - destroying everything that had been inside.

Her mother's grimoire was gone.


	17. Chapter 17

Anders just wished the whole trip was _over. _The woman was absolutely _impossible. _He had spent trips in chains back to the Tower in the company of Templars who were more interesting than Antivan-Warden-Francesca the Mind-bogglingly Boring. He'd even welcome being kicked in the head every now and then for the chance to talk to someone who didn't respond in a monosyllable.

All right she didn't speak much Ferelden - but Anders actually spoke passing fair Antivan. When he tried to converse with her in her native tongue, however, he was met with stony silence. He thought it was _Orlesians _who got all snooty about the correct pronunciation of their language.

They had been attacked twice on the road - darkspawn both times, although not the thoroughly creepy talking darkspawn Anders had been dealing with in Amaranthine. Just the regular kind. He'd been right about Francesca's battle prowess. She wielded two full sized longswords as though they were extensions of her arms. The first attack had been over so quickly Anders had barely had enough time to cast a single spell. Before he was fully conscious of having to do _anything _three genlocks were neatly beheaded and the fourth was gutted and dying. Anders had only had to cast a brief lightning bolt to finish him off.

Francesca was barely breaking a sweat at the end of it. Not even Aedan at his best had been as efficient.

Any attempt on Anders part to admire her style or engage her in conversation about how she got to be so frighteningly _good _was again met with single syllable answers and blank stares. Truly, Anders didn't understand it.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He did understand it, but he wished he didn't. He also wished Nathaniel and he had been more thorough about checking who would be a good candidate for this particular mission. Single-minded, familiar with magic, good at killing, and _not Anders seducable _(Nathaniel had added that criteria, Anders was fully aware) were the criteria they'd chosen. They really should have added _not pathologically terrified of mages_.

He realised what the problem was a day into the journey. The woman flinched whenever he raised his hands, even if it was just to adjust the band on his hair. She sat as far away from him as possible whenever they made camp. She eyed his staff with undisguised hatred.

Anders sometimes wondered if the Templar talents she had were actually self discovered. That sort of righteous indignation would be only tiny steps away from a holy smite.

About three days out from Soldier's Peak, when Anders snapped. He scooted ahead of her on the path and held out his palms, flat, in front of him, stopping her progress.

"Look," he said. "This has got to stop."

She stopped a few feet from him, obviously not willing to get closer. "Scusi?"

"We're on a _mission_ together. Surely you've worked with warden mages before? Why are you so..."

"So what?"

"So _frightened?"_

He sensed immediately that he had made a mistake. This was a warrior - a woman who spent her life fighting darkspawn and he'd just questioned her courage. But it might have been the _right _mistake, he thought next, because she was tensing in _anger_ not in fear and she was riled enough to actually speak to him.

"I am not _frightened," _she spat back at him.

"You certainly _seem_ frightened," Anders said. "Or am I mistaking fear of _me _for a crushing terror of Ser Pounce A Lot?"

She snorted. "I do not have to explain myself to you mage," she said.

Anders crossed his arms over his chest. "Actually, you do," he said. "I'm your commanding officer on this mission - Nathaniel put me in charge and I _know _he told you that."

"You have been a warden for what? Six months? Pah! You would not know how to command a troop of children."

Anders remembered classes he had taught at the Tower - thirty, misbehaving, teenage mage apprentices who all had the power to set their desks on fire, and almost laughed. Who would have thought that he actually _did _have command experience.

Still, he hadn't stuck around to teach _many _of those classes.

"Perhaps not," he said. "But I do know magic, and I do know the veil, and I will need your cooperation, not just your presence if anything goes wrong at our destination."

She set her hands on her hips and glared at him. He had to repress the urge to grin. Despite her age and her battle scars he could clearly see the young woman she had once been.

"Warden mages are not common," she said finally. "We had only three in Antiva. One of them turned on us."

"Turned on you?"

"Became possessed. A pride demon, I believe you call them? This is why I have learned Templar talents. This is why I do not like your kind, mage. You are dangerous."

Anders pursed his lips. "I'm sorry," he said. "It happens, I am aware. But it's not going to happen to me."

"You are just like he was," she said. "Arrogant. Flippant." Funny how her grasp of Ferelden was better when she was insulting him. "It is for you, I think, only a matter of time."

Anders was surprised at the flare of rage that started in his belly at her words. He should have been used to it by now - the belief that mages were walking bombs and needed to be locked up for the safety of others. But months of being with the wardens had dulled that sense of outrage in him - Aedan had been many things, but frightened of Anders he was not. And Anders _knew _the former Commander had none of Francesca's talents.

With the rage came a flare of his power. He dropped his hands and let lightning play across them, watching Francesca, who stepped backwards, eyes widening. He could _feel _her gathering her will for a smite and he forced his power back under control. "You should have joined the Templars," he said bitterly. "They _like _your attitude."

He spun around and continued walking, not caring if she was following.

Her distrust didn't mellow in the following two days, but Anders found it didn't bother him as much as it had. She was not stupid - they would fight well enough together if it came to it - and he didn't have the energy to invest in trying to change her mind about him. Instead he focused on mental exercises and tested the edges of the veil for damage. They were close enough now, to Soldier's Peak, that he should be able to feel anything truly out of the ordinary. And sure enough, the veil gave a little more easily when he tested it. Magic came to him more quickly. When Francesca twisted a muscle climbing through the tunnels that lead to the fortress, Anders healing magic almost seemed to leap out of him it came so naturally.

He could detect no tears, however. But his dreams were troubled with the voices of demons and he felt constantly uneasy.

The fortress was enormous, and coated in snow, and, from what he could tell, completely deserted. Although badly in need of repair, the main buildings were still intact and Anders could see how easily defended it must have been - if only it sat somewhere that was worth defending. Francesca and he explored the outer buildings carefully and found nothing interesting - unless piles of bones and equipment could be considered interesting. Oghren had said they had battled on the Peak against undead, but the veil was stable enough now that these bones posed no threat to them.

Inside the fortress was much the same. If Aedan truly wanted to bring it back up to a workable level he would have to invest a lot more money and time than Anders believed the wardens had at present.

"What do you feel?" Francesca asked him as they started the climb to the upper levels.

He cocked his eyebrow at her and she frowned. "The veil is thin," he said. "But not torn. We're not about to be attacked by demons or undead."

She nodded, but didn't relax. As they climbed Anders began to feel as though there was something he was missing. Yes, the veil was intact, but there was something else ahead of them - a presence he couldn't quite identify. As they reached the top and started across the narrow bridge between the main fortress and the Tower, Anders felt a sudden pang of panic. Pounce, who had been riding in his pack, leapt down to the ground, hissing. Francesca had moved ahead of him and was halfway across the bridge and he started to run forward. The wind was too strong and loud for him to cry out to her, and he cursed to himself as he saw the ward flare into life, trapping her in paralysis.

Another mage was here. He gathered mana for a dispel but before he could let it loose he felt the unmistakable press of a crushing prison surround him.

Through the haze of pain he could see the door at the end of the bridge open and a bent figure emerged. It was hooded, but the staff on its back identified it as a mage. Anders cursed his stupidity, even as the mage lifted his hands and let loose another spell, sending Anders into darkness.


	18. Chapter 18

_"Ignacio is clever, but not so clever as to suspect this," Zevran told them. "I have known where he is for weeks now. He will want to meet on his own turf. There are three likely locations - one the most likely which is where I will send the two of you. You will have to wait for two days I am afraid. It will not be comfortable. But I guarantee you, Alistair, I will help you when this is done. No matter what the outcome. Should I fall, you will be contacted by someone else who can give you what you need to find the Dalish."_

_"Should you fall?" Leliana asked. _

_The elf smirked at her. "Leliana, my lovely, you must know whoever is behind this wishes me gone? The Crows are not the type to _discuss _leadership issues. Or perhaps you think they put them to vote?"_

_"So why go at all?" Alistair asked. "Why risk being killed?"_

_"A beast with two heads cannot survive," Zevran said. "I do not want the Crows warring in the streets of Antiva city, my friend. Too many will die."_

_"You never struck me as the sort to worry about people caught in the crossfire, Zevran," Alistair said._

_"You never knew me, Alistair," Zevran replied, coolly. Alistair flushed and looked down. "Yet I do not blame you. Why would you want to get to know me? Aedan only learned enough to be certain I would not turn on him when Taliesen came for me. I was useful. I am always certain to be... useful."_

_Leliana looked up at him, worry in her eyes. For Zevran or for the task they had to perform, he wasn't certain._

Alistair shifted, trying to get comfortable in the confined space. Leliana was on watch. They'd been taking turns, even though it was difficult in the darkness to keep track of time. Alistair found sleep eluded him, despite his training. It was the constant dark, he told himself. It was the knife edge of worry he skirted between his dreams and the damnable tasks Zevran kept setting for them.

It was the scent of _her _so close to him in the tiny room. It was so difficult to avoid brushing against each other when they moved. Her hair would tickle his neck as she slid behind him to their sleeping roll. Her hands would brush his chest as they swapped positions at the tiny gap in the boards that looked out into the warehouse. The air was so still, sometimes, that he imagined he could feel the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed in sleep.

"I did this once for Marjolaine," Leliana said softly as she peered into the gloom. She must have realised he was awake. "We waited for a mark for four days, Sketch and I. He too was impeccably polite."

"Polite?" Alistair said. "How precisely am I being polite?"

"My dearest Alistair, I can feel you blush every time we touch. Is it truly so terrifying - to be in a confined space with a woman?"

He couldn't help the flash of memory - the _last _time he'd been in a confined space with a woman. Or confined by a woman, more accurately. "See, I can feel it again," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

"Is it running into Zevran that's made tormenting me one of your favourite past-times again?"

"Oh, how much we enjoyed trying to make you blush on the road," Leliana said. "Morrigan loved it too."

He winced at the name. "I remember," he said, and his voice was hoarse. He felt her move, felt her hand reach for his, and the smooth skin of her fingers as she ran them over his own sent a jolt straight to his belly. "Leliana..." he started.

"Alistair, you do not have to be afraid of me," she said.

He snatched his hand back. "What do you mean, afraid?"

"I am not like her."

He frowned into the darkness. Of course she wasn't. No one was like Morrigan. But he got the feeling that wasn't precisely what she was talking about.

"Leliana, we're supposed to be watching," he said, although the words came reluctantly. He heard her take a breath and turn back to the viewpoint and he couldn't stop the little sound of need that escaped his lips. She was so... utterly unlike Morrigan.

He avoided thinking about her - most of the time. The baby was what was important - not the mother. But shoved into this.. closet with Leliana for a day and a half with nothing to do but think and breathe her scent he found he'd been flashing on that occasion more than was comfortable. He thought it was ridiculously unfair that he could remember every sound, every sensation so vividly, when he'd certainly not been in his right mind. And that he couldn't stop the association whenever Leliana looked at him _that _way and...

Sleep wasn't happening any time soon.

An hour later he heard movement from the room below. He felt Leliana tense all over before she reached out an arm to wake him - not that he'd been sleeping - and he sat up to crouch next to her, peering through the gap in the boards that gave them a clear view of the room below.

_"Are you certain they will not know of this hiding place?" Leliana asked._

_"Leliana, of course not. I would not put you in unnecessary danger."_

_"Define unnecessary," Alistair growled._

_"Your urge to protect is quite delightfully charming, my royal friend," Zevran ran his fingers through his hair and made a face. Alistair got the impression he wished he hadn't cut it. _

The men below stood guard, obviously stationed to make sure no one came to interrupt the meeting which was scheduled for a few hours hence. Zevran had probably been over-cautious, making Alistair and Leliana stake out for so long, yet Alistair couldn't blame him. The Crows were not known for shoddy preparation. Alistair knew Zevran had only given Ignacio his answer after Leliana and he had been in position for a day.

"Two hours, maybe three," Leliana breathed into his ear. He shivered, knowing it was necessary that they make as little sound as possible, but also wishing she could somehow have imparted the knowledge without pressing her entire body against his. Even leather clad as they were he could feel the heat of her.

Four hours later Ignacio entered. Alistair recognised him, even though Aedan had only taken him with him once during their brief period of employment with the Crows in Denerim. Such a large man. Alistair had always wondered what exactly had happened to break his shoulder so badly, although given the little Zevran had told him about what the Crows did to their own members, his imagination had provided several answers.

The Antivan was accompanied by a an elven woman wearing a hood. It was obvious she was in charge.

"That's who we're after," Alistair mouthed into Leliana's ear. He felt her nod.

An hour later Zevran arrived. He was alone, as Ignacio had specified. Of course, Zevran had said, they wished to kill him. Alistair and Leliana both readied weapons, expecting to have to charge almost as soon as the elf entered. To their surprise, Zevran did not give the signal.

Instead he stopped stock still when he walked into the small pool of light where Ignacio and the woman stood. "Zevran," Ignacio said, his voice smooth. "So good of you to come. I believe you know my companion? The _true _master of the Crows?"

The woman stepped forward and pushed back her hood to reveal waves of red hair and delicately pale skin. Her head was tipped forward so Alistair could not make out her face, but he saw Zevran stiffen as the woman moved. The elf's hands twitched at his side - an involuntary movement - something Alistair had _never _seen from him before. Alistair could only just make out Zevran's face, but it was clear to him that something was very, _very _wrong with his former companion. He had a moment to wonder if perhaps Ignacio had already managed to poison him, or wound him in some way before he got to the warehouse.

"What do you want of me?" Zevran asked, and his voice held nothing but defeat.

The woman stepped forward into the light and for the first time Alistair could see that her neck was horrifically scarred. She had her head lifted, proudly displaying the angry red slash. "Obviously, Zevran," she said, and her voice was ravaged, rough and coarse. "_My love." _Alistair saw Zevran's shoulders slump even further at the endearment._ "_I want you dead."

Beside him, he felt Leliana draw her daggers. "What are you doing?" he hissed at her.

"He's not going to give the signal," Leliana hissed back. "We have to attack now."

"Wha..?"

She shoved his sword into his hand and kicked at the flimsy boards that concealed them, letting loose her song of victory at the same time. Alistair was furious, but had no choice but to follow her down into the room.

He had time to see that Zevran was on his knees in front of the mysterious woman, his head bowed as if in worship, before the first of the guards attacked. There were five of them. He saw Leliana dispatch one quickly before she spun towards another.

He felt awkward without his shield, but the training Leliana had given him came to the fore and he managed to block an attack with the dagger that had replaced it before burying Duncan's sword into the belly of the first guard. A thud in his back that quickly turned to burning told him he'd been hit from behind and he spun, catching the attacker across the neck with his dagger. Blood spurted across his face as another guard rushed him, but the man was off balance and not paying attention. Leliana's dagger pierced his underarm and Alistair took the opportunity to part his head from his neck.

The guards were down. He spun to face Zevran, Ignacio and the woman, to find Zevran caught in her grip, a knife held to his throat. The Antivan elf's amber eyes were amused as they gazed at Alistair. Amused, and empty.

"Do not move," Ignacio said, in Ferelden. It was obvious he recognised them. "Or my friend will kill him."

"Since she's already said she _wants _to kill him any way, why should we worry?" Alistair said. Ignacio laughed heartily and Alistair took a step forward, sword raising. Leliana put her hand on his arm, restraining him.

"Zevran," she said. "Who is she?"

The elf raised an eyebrow, but did not answer her question. "Leave, Leliana. Alistair. I will honour our agreement, even in death."

"No!" Leliana said.

Zevran turned his gaze to her and Alistair didn't think he'd ever seen so much sadness. The man wanted to die, it was perfectly obvious. Alistair had a feeling Leliana wasn't going to let him though.

"We just took down five of your guards," Leliana said. "What makes you think you can stand against us if we choose to attack?"

"If you care for his life at all, you will not," Ignacio said.

Alistair lost patience. He swung his sword in a calculated arc that missed the woman and Zevran but hit the taller Antivan in the neck, killing him instantly. The woman, shocked, stepped back, but did not release her grip on Zevran.

Zevran chuckled. "Alistair, Alistair," he said. "I would never have expected such bloodlust from you."

"Quiet," the woman hissed at him.

"Well, my dear," Zevran said. "It is now two against one. Do you still wish to kill me? I have no doubt our bloodthirsty Templar will cut you down as soon as you do."

"Shut up," she growled, tightening her grip on him and letting the point of the dagger pierce the skin at his neck.

"What about this," Zevran continued, and his smooth tone and manner were back in place, even though the life had not returned to his eyes. "I shall leave Antiva City. Should you let me and my companions go, and promise not to pursue us, you can have the Crows. I step down. I shall not challenge you again."

"Why should I trust anything you say?"

Zevran chuckled. "Put it this way, _mio caro," _he said. "You truly have no choice if you wish to live."

"Bah!" she pushed Zevran away from her in disgust. The elf, usually so graceful, stumbled and fell to his hands and knees. She kicked him down to the floor. Alistair's grip tightened on his weapons, expecting _something _from the elf - an attack - a witty reply. Instead Zevran turned his face to the woman - his posture much the same as it had been that day in the Brecilian forest, when his life hung in the hands of Aedan Cousland - the man he had been contracted to kill.

The woman leaned over him and gazed at him for a long moment, before carefully spitting in his face. "There, _mio caro," _she said bitterly. "I shall find you again. And we will finish this." She spun and left, slamming the doors of the warehouse behind her. Alistair started forward, intending to follow her, but Zevran held up his hand.

"No, no, Alistair," he said, using his other hand to wipe his face. "Believe me when I say I deserved that. And far, far more. And in any case, you will not find her. She is... far too skilled."

"Who is she?" Alistair said. Zevran got to his feet, slowly, moving as though he were wounded.

Zevran looked at the door of the warehouse, as though wishing the woman to return to them. "Someone dead," he said softly. "A fitting person, truly, to lead the Crows."

"But.."

"We waste time with questions," Zevran snapped, his eyes flashing as he turned back to Alistair. "Do you not want to find the Dalish? Come. Let us go now."

Leliana squeezed Alistair's arm as Zevran turned to leave. "What's with him?" he asked her, plaintively.

"Come, Alistair," she said, and there was a wealth of sadness in _her _voice that told him she understood a lot more of what had just transpired than he did.


	19. Chapter 19

_Short chapter today. Aedan is a man of few words, as is Kylon I have found. I have to shout out to Terry Pratchett here whose Commander Vimes in the Discworld series is my inspiration for Kylon._

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The servant cowered as he thumped his fist into the wall. Aedan did not lose his temper easily - he knew how important it was in politics and in battle not to let emotions rule, but the situation was becoming intolerable. His request to the banns for more grain had been met with stony silence or outright denial. They claimed there simply was none to be spared, but Aedan knew enough about how his father had run Highever to know that the banns _always _kept reserves for tough times. Bryce Cousland had gotten around this with his banns by being _personable. _He visited farms and farmers, knew _first hand _exactly what was in the grainaries.

Aedan, confined to the Palace at Denerim, didn't have that luxury. And the Teyrns didn't trust him enough - didn't want to give up their own little advantages until they were certain of him. _Here _was a time when the Theirin name would have done some good. It was easy enough to deny a request from a man who was married to the daughter of a commoner, but to deny a request from a descendant of Maric the Saviour?

The fact that Loghain was the Hero of Ferelden _and _River Dane didn't matter. He was dead. And Anora, although he was extremely grateful for the fact, was _not _her father.

"You may go," Aedan said to the cowering elf. The fool scuttled from his presence like an ant. And they wondered why humans despised them so much. Why could they not show some backbone? It was certain _he _would never stand for his people being locked up and denied basic rights simply because of their blood...

He supposed the Dalish had the right of it.

When he was alone in his office again he stood at the window and looked down at the city. _His _city. Thinking of the elves had him riled up. There would certainly be more food riots. And soon. He could only hope Kylon would do what needed to be done. He had confidence that the man could follow orders, and Eamon despised him, which was a point in his favour for Aedan. But he knew how hard it had been for Nathaniel to carry out his order to kill the civilians at Vigil's Keep..

There was a knock at the door and he sighed. "Come," he said. It opened to reveal his wife, Anora, who was smiling - a rare enough occurrence to pique his interest. "My love. It's good to see you."

Her smile widened a little and she closed the door behind her. They'd reached a comfortable accommodation in the past few weeks, to the point where he was even inclined to admit that he was fond of her. Despite her political savviness, there was a charming innocence about her that he had not yet had the urge to disrupt.

"I have news, Aedan," she said. "Good news."

He allowed himself a small smile. "Good news is rare these days," he said. "I'd be delighted to hear some."

She took his hands in hers and placed them on her stomach. "I'm pregnant," she said.

Kylon did his best to keep his men together as they marched towards the alienage. They all knew what was coming. After the last riot, there had been an air of unspoken tension in the barracks. Some of his men, he was well aware, wished it had been them who made the killing blow. Others felt as he did. One or two, he knew, had left the guards specifically because they didn't want to be there when the next riot happened. He'd been sad to lose them - truly decent men and women were difficult to find and keep in this day and age. He hoped they'd left the city.

His feet felt leaden as he walked, his sword, drawn and ready should the elves break out before they arrived, slippery in his hand. How many would he have to kill, himself? Would the elves be foresighted enough to keep their children out of the way? Maker, please, _please _let him not have to kill a child. When he found himself taking a deep, shuddering breath he realised he was perilously close to breaking down, and Aedan Cousland would _not _forgive it. Aedan Cousland would have him hauled up in front of the Council and disciplined, if he even got that far. Aedan Cousland _should be the one in front of these men, Andraste damn him. _

The gates to the Alienage were firmly closed, but they were being battered from the inside with something heavy. Kylon ordered his men to form up, archers positioned to shoot down the first elves who surged through the broken gates - for as sturdy as they were it was only a matter of time before they collapsed. His second, Carroll, stood next to him, a calm, solid presence. Kylon gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the howling that had started up somewhere inside him. He had to do this. _He had to do this._

Each beat of whatever the elves were using for a battering ram made him wince internally. His fingers gripping his shield and sword felt nerveless. When the gates finally fell he shouted the order to attack and felt Carroll and the rest of his men surge forward.

But he didn't move. He watched, his eyes blurring, as the first of the elves were cut down in front of him. He heard the battle cries of his men as they waded into a press of unarmed bodies. But he didn't move.

_It doesn't matter that you're not doing it with your own sword,_ a voice said inside him. _You gave the order. You killed them._

The sword and shield he held fell to the ground as he turned on his heel and started walking away.


	20. Chapter 20

Xanthi had tried to persuade her to stay. Morrigan found she was touched by the woman's concern, but it was becoming obvious she would be safer on the move. As transient as the Dalish were, they did not move often enough - if Ceindrech was acting as a beacon for the darkspawn the Dalish would be under attack constantly.

Night after night, for the two weeks they traveled to the clan's midsummer camp, Morrigan meditated, extended her senses and tried desperately to discover more about her child's nature. It simply wasn't enough. She didn't have the necessary senses to know for certain whether the darkspawn attack had been coincidence or design.

When they reached the midsummer camp, Kalia, the hunter who had left to tell the wardens of the darkspawn attack, was waiting for them. She sought out Morrigan and Xanthi immediately.

"What news?" Xanthi asked.

"The wardens were grateful for the information," she said. "Apparently it was not unexpected."

Xanthi glanced at Morrigan with a raised eyebrow. The Dalish did not know she had traveled with Aedan during the Blight - she had no reason to tell them, but her familiarity with Darkspawn had been noted by the Keeper and Morrigan knew she was suspicious as to why she had so much knowledge of them.

"Not unexpected?"

Kalia shrugged. "You know how closemouthed the wardens are, Keeper. The warden commander would not elaborate, but it seems they have knowledge of increased darkspawn movement."

Morrigan excused herself to set up her tent - a new one to replace the one that had been burnt. Again, she was reduced to the clothes on her back - again the Dalish had provided for her. She was humbled by their continued generosity, and now of course, she was putting them in danger.

That night, for the first time in many years, she dreamed a dream where she was not in control.

_The horde seethed below her, the chasm in the deep roads both deeper and wider than she remembered. She was alone - the crushing weight of stone above her and around her making her senses scream. Lyrium veins called to her, promising power to deal with the darkspawn, power to defeat her enemies, but as she turned to activate them she was paralyzed with fear. The horde surrounded her on every side, hurlocks, genlocks, ogres and shrieks, waiting, still and silent as darkspawn _never _were, simply watching her. Watching, and waiting._

She was woken by a cry from Ceindrech - high and urgent, like no cry she had heard from her daughter before. She looked down to find her arms encircling the child, clutching her tightly. Ceindrech's eyes were open, rather than squeezed shut the way they normally were when she cried, and fixed on Morrigan's own with startling intelligence. Morrigan found she was shaking, but gently eased her grip on her daughter, never taking her eyes from the child's. The cry had ceased as soon as Morrigan woke, and she knew that Ceindrech had brought her back from danger. Flemeth had taught her to control her dreams young - all mages needed to be aware of the dangers of possession. To dream without consciousness was as frightening for Morrigan as it was unusual.

She took it as a warning.

The next morning Morrigan sought out Xanthi and told her of her decision to keep moving. Xanthi looked at her, and she hoped she was imagining the suspicion she saw in that gaze.

"Morrigan, if we hadn't been near those darkspawn would have killed you," the Keeper said.

"I was unprepared," she replied shortly.

"I would like to know how you could have been _more _prepared," Xanthi said dryly. "The number of times I had to disentangle my hunters from your traps..."

Morrigan let out a breath. "I will be safer on the move," she said.

"Where will you go?"

Morrigan bit her lip and looked away. The Dalish were still in the process of settling, establishing a home for themselves in the quiet heat of the forest. She breathed in the air and acknowledged to herself that she would miss the life she was leaving - even the elves themselves. She had never felt as though she had a place before - here, with her students and Ceindrech, she had fallen into a role she'd never thought of for herself.

But she needed to go home - back to Ferelden, to the Wilds and her mother's hut. Perhaps there, she would find the answers she needed. Aedan had assured her her mother was dead, had brought the witch's grimoire, but perhaps there was other information that she could glean from the hut where she had spent her childhood. Her mother could have left traces the Cousland boy could not recognise.

When she looked back at Xanthi the elven woman's face was soft with what looked like pity. Instead of riling at the emotion, Morrigan found she was touched that Xanthi cared. "I shall go back to Ferelden," she said finally, and Xanthi nodded, as though she had expected it.

"Be careful, Morrigan," the Dalish Keeper said. "Our people tell many legends of _Asha'belannar_ and all say she is all but immortal. I know you believe she is dead, but..."

Morrigan nodded. "You have my thanks, Xanthi," she said. "If I would be permitted... I hope some day.. perhaps I may return here?"

The Keeper looked surprised. "Morrigan, you will always be welcome among us," she said after a pause.

"Then I must bid you farewell."

Xanthi raised her hand and a ball of healing light appeared in it. Morrigan felt the soft warmth of the spell spread through her body - a benediction, a gift of power from one mage to another, and felt the unfamiliar prickle of tears behind her eyes. "_Dareth shiral_, my friend," the Keeper said. "I shall miss you."

Morrigan nodded. "And I shall miss you, Xanthi," she said, surprised to find that it was entirely true. The woman had become her friend, despite their differences.

She left the camp the next morning.

Traveling with Ceindrech was far more difficult that travel on her own. She could not shapeshift, and Ceindrech's presence made hunting for game difficult. The Dalish had luckily provided her with supplies, but carrying these and her rapidly growing daughter made progress slow. She'd been traveling for two weeks, still in the forest, when the darkspawn came again.

She _was _prepared, despite Xanthi's worries - at least for a group this size. Five genlocks, all easily dispatched by her spells. But it left her shaken and uncertain. It seemed the darkspawn _were _drawn to her and Ceindrech, and she wasn't safe. She needed to get to civilisation and fast. Even darkspawn did not attack large urban centres - unless there was a blight. She would be safe, once she reached Antiva city.

At the edge of the forest, however, she was attacked again. Many, many more darkspawn than she anticipated. She downed lyrium potion after lyrium potion, desperately hoping to thin their numbers, but she had to acknowledge that eventually her reserves would give out and they would overwhelm her.

The last of her lyrium had been poured down her throat and her mana had all but exhausted itself. She was willing to sink to the ground and surrender, save that Ceindrech, strapped to her chest, was crying, somehow keeping her on her feet. There were crashes and snaps in the forest behind her and she almost sobbed, thinking more darkspawn were arriving. She had no time to turn and look. Expecting at any second to be cut down from behind, she started desperately swinging her staff, her final line of defence.

When two of the darkspawn in front of her were felled by arrows she blinked, unwilling to believe someone had come to her rescue. A familiar battle cry rang through the branches of the trees and she almost sank to her knees in a combination of surprise and relief. Two warm bodies were suddenly on either side of her, swords and daggers swinging, a shield bashing into the body of a hurlock that had nearly reached her position.

Ceindrech's cries diminished and ceased as the darkspawn after darkspawn were felled by her companions. When the last of the foul creatures lay steaming and still in a pool of its own blood, she allowed her knees to give and slumped to the forest floor, gasping for breath. A gentle hand found her shoulder, another tipped her head up and she was looking into the clear blue gaze of Leliana. Zevran and Alistair stood behind her, splattered with darkspawn blood. She had time to realise they had both changed. Different, both of them. Harder.

"Morrigan," Alistair said. "We've been looking for you."


	21. Chapter 21

Pain woke him. In his wrists, at first, although as he crawled towards consciousness a hundred other hurts - small and large - made themselves known to him. Instinctively he reached for healing magic to ease them and found his access to the fade blocked. Part of the pain in his wrists explained itself in an all-too-familiar way - anti magic bracers encircling them, locked together in front of him. The rest of the pain became obvious as he lifted his head to examine them - the bracers were rubbing against bandages.

Someone had been bleeding him.

White hot anger flooded him as he remembered the last time someone had done that to him - at the Circle a month after his fifteenth birthday - the Templars holding him still as he thrashed to get away from the knife. But he wasn't at the circle. He blinked, trying to clear the fog in his brain through natural means - not easy when he was used to being able to dismiss pain with a thought - but finally managed to clear his sight enough to take in his surroundings.

It didn't look good.

He was sitting, naked but for his smalls, in a cage which was suspended from the roof. Another two cages hung near him. The air was cloying with herbs and potions and bitingly cold - it was obvious to him that this was some kind of mage's laboratory. There were shelves packed with the kind of ingredients he had in his own workroom at the keep - along with many others he wasn't as familiar with, although he ventured a guess Nathaniel would know their purposes. A large bench sat on a raised platform at the end of the room, covered with vials and ingredients.

It was eerily silent. He couldn't feel the familiar presence of Pounce and he felt a sudden stab of grief - hoping the animal had managed to avoid the spells that had captured him.

He shifted himself upright, setting the cage to swinging wildly. The noise from the chain that held the cage was deafening in the silence and Anders guessed it wouldn't be long before whomever had captured them would come knocking. He was desperately worried about Francesca - if the mage had bled Anders there was no telling what he would do to the warrior. Blood magic used live sacrifices in too many of its spells for Anders to hope she was somehow unharmed.

He was almost afraid to check, but once the cage was settled and he was certain no one was coming to investigate the noise, he reached up into his hair and felt carefully for the picks he always kept there. Years of escape attempts had taught him magic was definitely _not _always an option and he breathed a sigh of relief to feel the familiar hardness in its usual place. He left them in place for now, however, despite the shivers that wracked his body in the cold and the ball of nauseous worry that sat in his stomach. He needed to find out who his captor was - and what they had done with Francesca.

An hour or so later Anders heard a door opening and turned to see a figure struggling up the stairs into the room, dragging a body - he could only hope it was a living one - behind him. At the top of the stairs the figure let the body drop and Anders was relieved to see Francesca move - the body was definitely her - and groan in protest. As he straightened, Anders could see that the figure was a mage, although he was so ancient and wizened Anders could have been forgiven for thinking he was a ghoul. The robes he wore were tattered and bloodstained, the staff on his back held in place with frayed rope rather than a proper sling. He was every schoolchild's vision of a malificar - a Templar's dream.

Francesca was dressed slightly more than he - undershirt and trousers rather than just smalls. He supposed the mage was more thorough about removing any source of enchantment from a fellow magic user - but he could see shallow wounds on her wrists, presumably similar to the ones that adorned his own.

"So, you're awake," the mage said once he was upright. Anders didn't dignify his words with a response, simply stared. "Surprising. I would have expected a few more hours, at least." The mage left Francesca crumpled at the top of the short flight of stairs and moved towards the corner of the room, opening a chest there and rummaging through it. "I imagine you're cold," he continued. "It does tend to get rather chilly up here in the winter. Forgive me for not dressing you in your robes again - they have a few too many enchantments in them for my liking. And it's difficult for an old man to dress an unconscious person - especially someone so big. Here." He pulled out a set of robes, only slightly better off than the ones he was wearing, and brought them to the cage. Anders took them silently. The mage casually cut his hand with a knife and cast a spell that Anders was unfamiliar with, before unlocking the anti-magic bracers around his wrists so he could dress. It was difficult with the cage swinging so much, but he managed, despite the crushing feeling of the blood magic - preventing him from casting. Once he was finished the mage muttered a word and Anders found his hands back in front of him, despite his intention not to cooperate with the man if he tried to replace the bracers. The man snapped them back into place, his wrinkled face expressionless.

The whole procedure had something of the routine about it and Anders shuddered to think that the man was _used _to this kind of work.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The mage returned to Francesca and began laboriously dragging her the rest of the way to the cages. Anders winced - the wooden floorboards were undoubtably full of splinters - he hoped her trousers were thick enough to stop them from lodging in her skin.

"You can call me Avernus, although truly my name is unimportant," the mage huffed. "Considering your predicament I would have thought your first question would have been more self-centred."

"Call me an optimist," Anders said. "If I know it's going to be bad news I like to delay it a bit. Part of the fun."

The mage parted his lips in what was probably meant to be a smile, but it simply added to the overall impression of him as something half-dead. He reached the cage next to Anders and swung the door open. Anders confessed to himself that he was morbidly curious about how the skinny man was going to maneuver Francesca's muscular bulk into the cage, but the mystery was solved when he went to the wall and operated a winch, lowering the cage to the floor so he could roll the unconscious woman into it.

Anders itched to be able to use his healing sense on his fellow warden - she was obviously not well. He could only hope her injuries were in the same categories as his own and nothing more severe.

"Any chance you'd let us know what your plans for us are?" Anders said finally.

"I should have assumed they wouldn't tell you," the mage said. "Considering. But truly you're better off not knowing."

"You're a blood mage, I take it?"

"Indeed," he replied. "A warden first, however. As are you I imagine."

"I've always preferred to think of myself as Anders first, but being a warden is certainly up there, yes."

The mage closed and locked Francesca's cage and winched it back up into position. Anders could get a better look at her, now and he was worried at what he could see. She was pale - far paler than she should be. The blood mage must have taken more from her than from him. "You were going to tell me what your plans for us were."

Avernus looked confused. "Was I?"

_Great_, Anders thought. _He's going senile into the bargain. _"Yes," he said.

The old man shrugged. "You will be assisting me in my research," he said.

Anders grimaced. "I'm assuming this 'assistance' involves regular bloodletting and eventual death?" he said.

Avernus cocked an eyebrow at him. "Well, that rather depends on how well the research goes. Although I haven't had live subjects for some time, so I wouldn't be too optimistic."

_Best to get out of here as soon as possible, then. _Anders thought. The whole situation was increasingly surreal. Avernus seemed totally disconnected emotionally, he spoke conversationally, as though Anders were a colleague or a student rather than someone who _was about to be bled dry and possibly chopped up into bits. _He sucked at a lip in sudden fear. "What exactly are you researching?" he asked after a moment.

Avernus turned from the cages to his workbench, littered with vials and potions and, Anders swallowed to see it, two full glass flasks of bright red blood. He wondered if it was his or Francesca's. He felt even more nauseous. "Commander Dryden wanted me to find a way to make the joining less fatal," Avernus said.

Anders frowned. "Commander _Dryden..?" _he said, but Avernus was still talking.

"I was more ambitious than that. The wardens have been so shortsighted, for so many years. Why do they look upon the taint as a _curse_ when instead it can be a blessing?"

"Ah, possibly because of the whole early death thing..." Anders said, although he had the impression Avernus wasn't listening to him, having drifted off into his own world, "...but you seem to have found a way around that.. Did you say you were a warden under Commander _Dryden? _The woman who led the rebellion...?"

Avernus looked up and blinked at Anders. "Didn't your Commander tell you anything about this place?" he said. "I would have assumed he told you about repairing the veil at least."

"Uh.. well. Our Commander is no longer the same man, you see."

"Indeed? So what are you doing here then? I assumed he'd sent you. Although I wondered why he sent two when I specifically asked for one at a time. And a mage as well - he should know I have little use for mages..."

"Wait.. you _asked _Commander Cousland to send wardens to you? He _knows _what you're doing here?"

Avernus nodded as he began mixing ingredients in a mortar and pestle. Anders sat back against the bars of the cage, his mind racing. Aedan Cousland was knowingly sending wardens to be used in experiments that would likely kill them - by a blood mage no less.

A blood mage who was over two hundred years old. And almost certainly insane - given Anders current definition of the word, which included being able to speak about using human beings in experiments as though it was perfectly natural. It didn't make sense. Aedan wouldn't give a damn about how many warden recruits died in the joining - he'd barely blinked when Mhairi keeled over.

"Why?" Anders said finally, once the news had sunk in. Avernus paused in his work, looking up at Anders critically.

"You strike me as a fairly intelligent lad," he said finally. "Why don't you work it out for yourself?" Anders opened his mouth to reply but Avernus waved a hand and he was suddenly unable to make a sound. "Enough questions for now," Avernus said. "I need to work."

And that, it appeared, was that.


	22. Chapter 22

_Angst anyone? Also, i__f there are any native Italian speakers reading this (or even any people who have done more than the pitiful amount of Italian I have over the years) please let me know if my translations are completely off the mark. And can I send an enormous thank you out to all of you reading and big smooches to those who are reviewing as well. I've gotten some amazing feedback through writing this and I honestly think you guys are helping me be a better writer. I can't thank you all enough._

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Zevran made sure they were well prepared and stocked with the best equipment before they left Antiva City. Alistair was surprised the Crows didn't question him as he plundered the warehouse for coin and weapons, but perhaps news of what had happened hadn't reached them yet.

The elf was as far from his usual self as Alistair thought it was possible to get. No smiles cracked his face, which seemed to have gained a few extra lines, and he spoke little. There were none of the gentle jibes that had seemed like constant background noise during the Blight. He moved differently - the unconscious grace - so like Lelli's - was jerky now. He truly seemed to have been physically wounded by what had transpired.

Leliana tried to ask him who the woman had been but Zevran had been almost vicious in his refusal to give any information and the bard had backed off. Once they were in the farmlands surrounding Antiva City Leliana dropped back to talk with Alistair privately.

"We shall have to protect him," she said softly. Alistair blinked. "I know these symptoms," she continued. "He wants to die. If we enter battle he will try to get himself killed."

Alistair couldn't argue with that. Whoever the woman had been, she had damaged him profoundly. Considering Alistair didn't doubt the Crow had been damaged a lot during his life that was something of an achievement.

It was a week before the elf spoke more than two words together to Alistair. They were camping on the outskirts of the Antivan forests - Leliana had absented herself to wash in a nearby stream and Zevran was cooking them a meal (Alistair was still not allowed near the cooking utensils, although he honestly thought he'd improved over the years).

"So, my friend," Zev said as he stirred. "You and Leliana..."

Alistair had been polishing his shield and he stopped, hand tightening on the rag. Not this _again. _He'd gotten enough teasing from Zev during the Blight to last a lifetime.

"...we've been traveling together since the Landsmeet," he said carefully. "She agreed to help me."

"To help you find Morrigan," Zevran said. Alistair nodded. "Why do you wish to find our dear apostate? From what I remember you and she did not exactly get along."

"We hated each other," he said grimly.

"What changed?"

"Nothing."

Zevran looked skeptical. "So I am to believe you are willing to travel all over Thedas, abandon your plan to rightfully part Aedan's arrogant head from his shoulders, leave the wardens, because you wish to find a woman you despise?"

"She saved me, Zevran," Alistair said.

"Yes, and _that _was completely logical of her," Zevran's voice held some of his old teasing. "Why did she save you, _il mio amico_? I could see you saving her if your positions were reversed..."

"Really?"

He chuckled. "Alistair, you are ever the gentleman. Just because the lady in distress is a _cagna_ does not mean she is not worth saving, no?"

"I'm not even going to ask what that word means..."

"So Morrigan must have had a reason to save you. And it is not too far a stretch to believe that the reason she had to save you is connected to the reason you wish to find her now."

"She had a baby," Alistair blurted out, focusing on the shield now, unwilling to look Zevran in the eye.

"And what does that have to do with you, Alistair?"

He looked up and fixed Zevran with his gaze. Zevran returned it, comprehension dawning slowly, before his lips lifted in a grin. His amber eyes crinkled at the edges and showed more life than they had since the warehouse. Finally the Antivan elf chuckled. "Alistair, Alistair. I would never have expected it from you. After all the time I spent trying to crack that icy facade, and all it took was a Templar in distress..."

"It wasn't by _choice_, Zevran."

The elf frowned. "Alistair..."

He all but threw his shield to the side, hot shame pooling in his stomach and bile rising. "However it happened, she got pregnant and now she's wandering around with the Dalish. I want to find my _daughter _Zevran. Not Morrigan."

There was a pause as the assassin studied him, eyes calculating now. Alistair couldn't help but feel that the man was judging him. _Judging _him. His hands twitched with the urge to hit something and he wished he hadn't put his shield aside.

"How is it that you _know _this, Alistair?" Zevran said finally. "I assume she did not send you notice of the baby's birth?"

Alistair shook his head. "I dreamed of them," he said. "I dreamed of the birth." The elf raised an eyebrow and Alistair grimaced. "I _know,_" he said. "I know it's stupid, but I've _kept _dreaming of them, of _her_. I know she's real. I know I have to find her."

"And will you deprive the child of her mother as soon as you do?" Zevran asked. Alistair stared at him.

"What?"

The elf shrugged. "Do you propose to take her _away _from Morrigan?"

Alistair was suddenly confused. "I..."

"How old is this child? One month? Two? When we find her what are you going to _do_ Alistair? Take revenge?"

He was ashamed to find himself close to tears. Every question Zevran asked brought home to him the uncertainty of the situation. If he was honest with himself he didn't _know _what he was going to do when he found Morrigan. He certainly didn't want to take the baby _away _from her - much as he disliked the woman he didn't think taking children away from their mothers was in any way a good thing.

"What would _you _do, Zevran, if you found out you had a child?" he asked.

The elf shrugged. "I do not know, my friend," he said. "It would depend on who the mother was. If I found out the child I had was also a child of Morrigan's..."

There was a silence as they both contemplated it. Alistair's thoughts raced, circling around and around the one thing he didn't know that he _needed _to know from the apostate, the thing he'd been asking himself ever since that night in Denerim.

"I want to know why she had it in the first place," Alistair said. "I know mages have ways of preventing that sort of thing - Wynne said as much. So Morrigan must have wanted it. _Why_ Zevran? That's what I want to ask her. _Why _did she..."

"Steal from you?"

"Steal...?"

"She rescued you from Fort Drakon and seduced you... yet you say it was not your choice. She stole from you, my friend. Stole your beguiling innocence _and_ your seed for her own purposes. Is it any wonder you want to know why? Is it any wonder you wish for revenge?"

The hot pool of shame started to boil within him. _I need you, Alistair. _He could still hear her voice. Still see her body when he closed his eyes at night, no matter how he wished he could picture someone else. Leliana had all but told him she would welcome something more from him yet the very thought of letting that happen made something inside him cringe...

Leliana appeared, almost as though thinking of her had been enough to summon her from the stream. And she was wearing nothing but her sleeping shift again and Alistair couldn't help gazing for a second before he remembered that they _weren't _alone any more and closing his eyes. He could _hear _the leer in Zevran's chuckle. He opened his eyes again to confirm it, although Leliana was now safely out of sight.

"You seem back to your old self, anyway," Alistair said bitterly.

The grin Zev gave him _did _ look more like his old one, but his eyes lost their spark at the reminder of what had come before. Leliana saved them from continuing the awkward conversation by returning to the fire and they ate their meal in silence, Alistair chewing over what Zevran had revealed to him about his feelings. Leliana and he spoke quietly for a time after the meal and Alistair took himself to his tent, more tired than he wanted to admit. Zevran would take first watch.

He woke well before his own watch with a familiar sickening feeling in his stomach and taste in the back of his mouth. He lunged out of the tent, grabbing his sword and shield as he went, to find Leliana on watch, unaware of what he could sense. "Darkspawn," he hissed at her. Her eyes widened and she went to wake up Zevran.

The three of them waited, in the darkness for the attack to come. But it didn't. Alistair strained his senses - darkspawn could sense him too, he knew, and would always alter course to attack a warden if they could, but this time he could feel them move past their position. They had a different target in mind.

"Strike camp," Alistair said, when he was certain the darkspawn were not going to intersect with them. "We need to follow them."

Leliana looked puzzled. Zevran offended. "Are you suddenly the warden again, Alistair?" the assassin said.

"You don't stop being a warden, Zevran," Alistair said.

"Really?"

"Fine," Alistair snapped the buckles of his plate into place and sheathed Duncan's sword. "Stay. I'm following them."

Leliana was busy striking her tent, leaving only the assassin standing bemused by the remains of their fire.

"You promised to help him, Zev," Leliana said as she worked. "Do you want to go back now?"

Zevran shrugged, shaking his head, then moved to help.

It started after they'd been following the darkspawn for a few hours. Dawn was beginning to spread its fingers over the sky and although the canopy of the forest was thick it was getting easier to see. Alistair felt a tug, a pulling just under his breastbone. It reminded him of something, but he wasn't certain what.

It was only when he started to _hear _it as well that he realised what it was. "Maker's breath," he swore, stopping and letting Lelli and Zev catch up with him. "This is very, very bad."

"What is it?" Leliana asked him.

He shook his head. There was no point telling them. If he was right, they were probably all going to die. But he had to be certain. If there was a chance he could find out _without _dying - the wardens in Antiva would have to be informed.

There _were _some things more important than his daughter, he realised.

When they reached the clearing where the darkspawn were attacking what he saw made him feel as though the ground had been ripped out from underneath him. Fighting darkspawn was second nature to him, though, and he was grateful for the distraction of each hurlock and genlock as they threw themselves against him, trying desperately to get to the witch he'd been hunting - the witch who had his child strapped to her.

His child, who was transmitting the beacon call of an archdemon.

As the last spawn fell he saw Morrigan collapse with relief, cradling the small bundle that had come to mean everything to him in such a short time. A human emotion. Possibly the first genuine one he'd ever seen her exhibit. He wanted to scream at her to explain herself, shake her until she broke, strangle her, stab her...

...kiss her senseless...

He glanced at Leliana, heat suffusing his face, shame again writhing in his gut. Leliana was looking down at the witch, nothing but curiosity in her face. Zevran simply stared blankly.

"Morrigan," Alistair said finally, and she looked up, her yellow eyes filled with equal parts gratitude and surprise. No anger, he noticed. No fear. He wondered if she was being stupid. Didn't she realise the threat he posed to her child? _Our child, _he reminded himself. His eyes wouldn't move from the bundle in Morrigan's arms._ Oh Holy Maker, _he prayed, _let her have a good explanation for this. Please. She's my _daughter_._

_Don't make me have to kill her._

"We've been looking for you."


	23. Chapter 23

He'd been in the city for less than an hour, but Aedan knew he had to see him straight away. Technically, he should have him called to his office like the vassal he was, but Aedan knew there was every chance Fergus wouldn't come - oh, no, he'd _come, _but he'd _delay _and Aedan would be forced to fret and wait the way he always did with his older brother, as though no matter what their ranks the man would always be the senior.

Damn him.

Aedan didn't bother with the royal carriage, he simply dressed in his least conspicuous clothing and called two of his guards to accompany him across the city. The people were cowed enough not to attack the Prince Consort, but there was no sense in being careless. He had not survived this long by letting his guard down.

The Cousland estate was in the south of the city, in one of the oldest districts. Aedan had spent a lot of his time there as a child - less as a young adult. As he got older his father tended to leave him at Highever. Aedan had resented it. He remembered, standing at the gates of the town with his mother, watching Fergus and Bryce on horseback, chatting and laughing. Sometimes his mother had gone too, leaving him in the care of Nan.

He'd preferred it when they had all gone.

The servants admitted him without question - it was his estate too, of course. He found Fergus in the sitting room of his quarters - the quarters that had used to belong to their parents. Alfstanna wasn't with him, it seemed she'd remained in Highever and Aedan wondered if the rumours of her pregnancy were true.

Fergus was standing near the fireplace, reading a letter. He looked up when Aedan entered and a small frown creased his face.

"You didn't need to come here, pup," he said. Aedan winced at the nickname. "I would have come up to the Palace."

Aedan raised an eyebrow. "Eventually," he said softly. Fergus' eyes narrowed, but he motioned to one of the armchairs and Aedan sat gratefully. He didn't like standing next to Fergus. Although he didn't like admitting it, it still rankled that his brother was so much taller.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, brother?" Fergus asked.

Aedan spread his hands. "Your banns and arls are giving me trouble, Fergus," he said. "They're refusing to give up their surplus grain. The city is in need."

Fergus' face clouded slightly. "Not so much as it used to be," he said.

Aedan pursed his lips. "I assume you're referring to the recent activity in the Alienage..."

"Activity isn't the word I'd use, pup."

He resisted the urge to snarl. "Riots are ugly," he said instead, calmly. "They need to be dealt with harshly. I don't expect you to understand - you've never had to deal with one before."

"No. Yet, you seem to be gaining experience rapidly in that regard."

"Had your vassals seen fit to provide me with what is _rightfully _the crown's the riots may never have happened," Aedan snapped.

They looked at each other for a long moment. Fergus was leaning forward in his chair, clutching the arms. After a moment Aedan realised he was doing the same and forced himself to relax backwards. "This accomplishes nothing," he said. "I need you to speak to the Arls. And quickly. The situation is worsening - the Capital cannot be seen to be in such dire straits. We are weakened, brother. Ferelden is ripe for the picking, and Denerim is the fruit that is most in danger of falling of its own accord. I do not wish to hand this country to Orlais on a platter."

"You sound like Loghain," Fergus said. "Do you truly believe Orlais is still a threat?"

"I believe it will be a threat as long as we present as vulnerable," Aedan replied. "And we'll continue to present as vulnerable as long as my city starves."

"But not if the countryside does?"

"Orlesians do not see the countryside, brother. Do you think they bother to send bards into the farmlands to report on crop rotations?" He sighed. "And even if they did - if the countryside is better off than the city, don't you think _that _sends a different message to the Orlesians?"

"That you care about your people more than appearances?"

"That I don't have enough _control!" _he almost spat.

Fergus eyed him speculatively. "You never did, did you?" he said quietly.

Aedan got to his feet, almost panting in anger. _Why _did Fergus always manage to do this to him? He turned his back on his brother, breathing deeply to regain his equilibrium. "Will you speak to the Arls?" he asked finally.

There was a long silence. Aedan turned back to see his brother had not moved, but was still eyeing him with that look... disapproval or disappointment? He'd never been able to tell. Not with Fergus, not with his father. Years of trying to anticipate what was expected of him weighed him down like the heaviest plate. He'd never got it right. Even though he was a better fighter, a better strategist, a keener mind... there'd always been _something _he was missing - something that Fergus had and he didn't.

It didn't help that the first time he'd ever been trusted with command Howe had slaughtered his family. No matter that he couldn't have predicted it, no matter that technically it was his _father _who'd been stupid enough to trust the man. Aedan knew Fergus blamed him for letting his wife and child die. He would blame Fergus, if their positions were reversed. The survivor who should not have survived. Fergus would look at him sometimes and Aedan _knew _he was wishing that Oren had been the one to walk away with Duncan.

He remembered his mother shouting at Howe's men.

_I've got nothing to lose any more..._

Oren had been what Aedan could not be.

He remembered killing Howe - remembered that it had felt good to feel the life spill out of that body. He remembered thinking that his parents would have been proud of him.

He remembered seeing Fergus for the first time after the Blight, remembered thinking that perhaps his brother would see him differently than he had. And he had, for a time. For all his grief over the loss of Oriana and Oren, Fergus had seemed truly happy to see Aedan alive that day.

Now he wondered if perhaps he'd simply read his brother wrong. They were back where they had been before the attack. He no longer knew if his parents would have been happy that he killed Howe. He certainly didn't think Fergus was happy that their positions were reversed - that _he _held the power...

It was becoming increasingly obvious that his brother would do nothing he asked of him. He needed a stronger incentive.

"Fergus, if you cannot deliver me what I need I shall find someone else to be Teyrn of Highever," he said bluntly. "I consider your continued refusal to comply with my wishes treason."

Fergus looked as though he'd been slapped in the face. "Aedan!" he said. "There's really no need..."

"Isn't there? You seem to be under the impression that my orders are nothing more than _suggestions_. Let me remind you who is Queen in Ferelden, and who is her consort. You will speak to the Arls, you will get them to release their surplus grain. Or I will have you imprisoned and hung as a traitor to the crown."

The fire that had lit in Fergus' eyes at his first threat died down. He got to his feet, clasping his hands in front of him, no doubt thinking of Alfstanna and little Bryce, back in Highever.

"And if they refuse me?" he said after a moment, and Aedan was pleased to hear the hint of a tremor in his brother's voice.

"Pray to the maker they do not, brother."


	24. Chapter 24

Horses were not Nathaniel's friend. He could ride, naturally. He wouldn't be a particularly effective member of the aristocracy if he couldn't. But he'd spent far too much time hunting with his bow and not enough time lording it over his subjects to be particularly comfortable so high up on something that moved. Even Oghren was happier on horseback than he was.

Visiting the outlying farms in Amaranthine was something he'd done with his father once or twice, just before he'd been sent to the Free Marches. He recognised some of the men and women he met, although they wouldn't have remembered him as anything but the shadow behind his father. Rendon Howe had been a capable administrator - a good Arl - but never popular with the people and Nathaniel was met with suspicion and sometimes outright hostility.

Times were hard in his Arling. The talking darkspawn had hit the countryside without mercy. Aedan had concentrated all his troops on protecting Amaranthine and trade routes - the farms had been largely left to themselves, and now they were suffering for it.

The land was still blighted in some areas. He had the single warden mage - Ricard - traveling to affected areas to help cleanse the land, but it was a slow process. He wished Anders would return - they desperately needed their healer back. At present he was risking the lives of his wardens every time he sent one into the deep roads.

They were on their way back to the Vigil, when they found him. Garavel spotted him first, being on foot with two of his men at the front of their party. He called for a halt and disappeared off the side of the road for a moment before shouting for Nathaniel.

Nathaniel dismounted awkwardly and made his way to the ditch where Garavel was kneeling.

"He's alive," the Captain said. "Barely."

A man, thirty-ish, dark hair and red steel chainmail. He was unarmed, odd considering his dress, but perhaps whoever had attacked him had stolen his weapons. He certainly looked like he was used to fighting.

"Shall we take him with us, Ser?"

Nathaniel took in the blood at the man's temple, the gashes in his armour, the pallor of his skin. He doubted the man would survive. But there was no way he was leaving him to die on the road. And there was another reason it was a good idea.

"Get him up onto my horse, Garavel," he said, swinging down to the ground.

Despite their lack of a healer at present the Grey Warden infirmary was probably one of the best run hospitals in Ferelden. Aedan had understood the necessity for it to be well stocked with potions and poultices, and every warden was trained in field medicine. Anders had even trained a few of the recruits in herbalism. Nathaniel saw that the stranger was settled and being attended to before going to wash the dust and grime of travel from himself. On his way back he ran into Oghren.

"Commander," the dwarf growled. "Heard you picked up a stray on the way back from the farms."

Nathaniel nodded. "I'm going to see him in the infirmary."

"I was just heading there, mind if I tag along?"

"Hangover?"

The dwarf grunted.

"You did listen to me when I told you about my brother?"

"Sodding humans never have the liver for my kind of lifestyle."

"I have no doubt that he was drunk when he was killed," Nathaniel pointed out.

"Certainly how I'm planning on going out. Oh, look, we're here."

Oghren stumbled off towards the storage cabinets. Nathaniel made a mental note to get a lock for them - he could see their supply of elfroot diminishing to nothing every time Anders was absent - and turned to the man on the cot. The infirmary was remarkably empty - there had been little darkspawn activity in recent weeks and the wardens were in good shape. The man was being attended by a young elven warden Nathaniel recognised as being one of their most recent recruits - Tabitha.

"Warden," he greeted her. She looked up, seeming slightly awed to be addressed by the Warden Commander. "You've been medically trained?"

"In the alienage we doctor ourselves or die, ser," she said. "I was better than most."

"How is he?"

"He'll live, ser," she said. "But there'll be quite a bit of scarring - not just on the face."

"Ancestor's tits!" the dwarf had stumbled back up towards them, reeking of alcohol and elfroot. "That's Sergeant bloody Kylon!"

"Oghren?" Nathaniel said.

"Aedan and the rest of us did some work for him in Denerim," Oghren said. "Good man. Tough as old boots and I would have sworn he had some stone sense in him. What the sod's he doin' here?"

"We found him on the road," Nathaniel said. "You said you did work for him in Denerim?"

"He was sergeant of the city guard," Oghren said. "Heard he was promoted to Captain after the blight. He's a long way from home, Commander."

Kylon - if that was who he was - groaned and turned his head towards their voices. He'd been grazed with what looked like a spiked mace along the side of the face making it a bloody mess covered in bandages - Nathaniel was amazed that Oghren had managed to recognise the man.

"Huh," Oghren said as the man's eyes flickered open. "Someone voluntarily attack you, Sergeant?"

He blinked. "Are you the Queen's men?" his voice was ragged and abused and Nathaniel motioned to Tabitha to bring water.

"No, ser. Although it seems you are, from what my friend says."

"Not... not any more." Tabitha helped him sit up and sip at the water she'd brought. "Ah," he said as he blinked, taking in the griffons on Nathaniel's leather. "Wardens then. Don't I recognise you, soldier?" he turned to Oghren.

"Aye," Oghren said. "I was with Aedan. In Denerim."

Kylon flinched and looked down. _Interesting reaction for one of the Queen's men, _Nathaniel thought. "He prefers to be called 'your majesty' these days."

"Not one for remembering titles," Oghren said. "Or much of anything if I get the chance. What happened to you?"

He didn't look up. "I was attacked on the road," he said. Nathaniel cocked his head. Something was wrong, here, and he wasn't sure what.

"Who by?" Nathaniel said.

"Bandits, I think," Kylon replied, although he didn't meet Nathaniel's eyes. Nate straightened.

"Well, my good man, I shall send wardens out to find them. We might even be able to get your weapons back..."

"They'll be long gone, Commander," Kylon said. "You needn't bother."

Nate stared at him for a long moment. The other man returned the gaze with some steel. "Well," Nate said finally. "The least we can do is get word to the guard in Denerim that you're here..."

"No!" Kylon lurched upwards, then winced as the pain of his injuries hit him.

"No?"

The man was panting with more than pain - he seemed genuinely panicked. "No. I'm not a member of the guard any more, Commander. They wouldn't be interested in me."

Nathaniel pursed his lips, then pulled a chair over to the bed, sitting and leaning forward. "Now, ser, why would that be? From what I understand, good fighting men are hard to come by in the capital these days. Indeed, they're hard to come by anywhere since the end of the blight. Why did you leave?"

Kylon looked at Oghren, then Nate, then back to Oghren, desperation in his gaze. Oghren folded his arms across his chest. "You can trust the Commander, Sergeant," the dwarf said roughly. "He's not going to slaughter you out of hand. You'd have to do something to annoy him first."

Nate suppressed a grin at Oghren's words - the dwarf was refreshingly blunt and it was good to have him back from Orzammar. Kylon still looked uncertain, but he seemed to come to a decision and took a deep breath, gathering his composure. When he spoke again, his voice had an echo of command in it.

"I was attacked by my own men on the road," he said. "I thought they wanted to drag me back to Denerim to be tried for desertion. Turns out they were just ordered to kill me."

"Truly?" Nathaniel said, leaning back in his chair and eyeing the man with a new respect. "I'd be very, _very _interested to know why."


	25. Chapter 25

_Once again - I'm using Italian here but I'm well aware that my Italian is.. well, bloody awful to be blunt. So if my translations are completely ridiculous please tell me._

Getting comfortable was becoming increasingly difficult. Each position he moved into set the cage to swinging. There wasn't enough space for him to stretch out and sleep, so he was cramped in a corner trying to balance the back of his head against a bar. He dare not risk freeing his hands until Francesca regained consciousness - there was a chance, however small, that the old blood mage would return to check on his charges before morning. Avernus had kindly left them a single lamp, giving just enough light to make the room _extremely creepy. _He envied Francesca her unconsciousness.

At least, he did until she woke up. _"Soffio di dio," _she groaned, turning to face him. Her eyes were bloodshot and her usually tanned skin was sickly and pale. She saw him, took in the cage and his bracers (she wore none) and her eyes narrowed. _"Guidata," _she said. _"Che cosa hai fatto?"_

_"I _didn't do anything," Anders said, but he kept his tone gentle. "We're the guests of someone else I'm afraid."

"Who?"

He gave her a long look, weighing what to tell her. If he told her the truth there was a chance she'd panic. If he lied to her and she found out on her own.. again, panic.

_She's a warden, _he reminded himself.

"A blood mage," he said finally. She drew back - almost gasping, but he had judged correctly. Her body language screamed fear, but she kept control, swallowing heavily as she shifted into a sitting position and wrapped her arms around her legs.

"What does he want with us?"

Anders rubbed his face in his bound hands. "He's taken blood from both of us," he said. "Apparently he's researching ways to... improve us."

_"Incantevole," _she muttered. Anders grinned. "So, what do we do, _guidata?"_

"Well, you have the lucky chance of being imprisoned with someone _very used _to escaping," he said. "How do you feel? Do you think you can stand or fight?"

She touched her face, then ran her hand through her hair. The hand was shaking. _"Mi dispiace..." _she said.

He shook his head. "Don't worry, we'll soon have you right again." He reached up into his hair and pulled out the pins there. He wedged one in his mouth and manipulated the other one with long fingered hands, carefully picking the lock on the bracers. Once they were gone he breathed a sigh of relief - his connection to the fade restored. While he waited for his mana to replenish he reached out with his senses to see exactly how Francesca was faring.

Not well, it turned out. "Maker's breath," he breathed. "What did he do to you?"

"I don't remember," she said shakily. "I feel.. _sbagliato..."_

He was worried. Avernus had spent much more time with Francesca than with him - he'd not just taken her blood - there was definitely something else going on apart from simple blood loss. The problem was Anders couldn't pin down exactly what it was.

He settled for a combination of rejuvenation and healing. As he released the magic her head tipped back in relief and she breathed a sigh. _"Grazie," _she said.

Anders was already at work on the lock of his cage. "Don't mention it," he said. The cage lock was more simple than he had anticipated and Anders wondered whether any of Avernus' previous residents had attempted escape at all. If he had been conducting his experiments with the blessing of the Warden Commander, maybe they hadn't bothered to try.

He lowered himself down to the ground carefully, trying not to set the cage to swinging too much, then got to work on Francesca's. She looked a lot better, but his senses told him there was still something going on that he didn't understand. It worried him - he'd rarely come across an illness or a poison he couldn't at least identify and treat to some extent. This was different.

He helped Francesca down from the cage. She stood for a moment, blinking, before the mask of competence settled on her face again.

_"Buono," _she said firmly. "I shall look for armour and weapons."

"There are a few chests," Anders said. "I'd like to look at his notes, if we get the chance."

"What if he returns?"

Anders smiled and set a paralysis trap at both the doors. "Let's see how _he _likes it," he said.

Francesca moved off to investigate the room while Anders examined the worktable. Usual potion making ingredients - deep mushroom, elfroot, even blood lotus. Flasks, mortar and pestle, and a burner. A large, stained tome which Anders fully intended to take with them when they left.

There was only one of the flasks of blood left. Avernus had used one in whatever concoction he had created while Anders was muted.

Anders was a _good _herbalist. His poultices and potions were excellent - but he had no idea what Avernus was attempting with the ingredients he had here.

He had started flicking through the tome when Francesca returned. She was dressed in her own armour and carried two sets of robes and, he was _vastly _relieved to see, his staff. He gave a little whoop of joy and ran to her, taking the staff and running his hands over it lovingly.

_"Sciocco," _she said, although the word had no sting in it. "People would think you were in love with it."

He grinned at her. "Oh, but I _am," _he said. "Spellfury cost me _a lot _of money. If I'd lost it I'd be very upset. Not to mention poor with nothing to show for it."

"Did not your commander issue you with a warden staff?"

"Pish," Anders said, shrugging out of the rags Avernus had given him and pulling the first set of robes over his head. They weren't his own - but they were heavily enchanted and in good condition. Anders wondered where Avernus had got them - why he wasn't wearing them himself. Perhaps he had just gotten past the point in his life where clothes were important.

Or perhaps he was too crazy to care.

When he was dressed he looked up to see Francesca had turned her back. "I could not find our packs," she said, without turning her head. "I assume they are somewhere in the fortress. We will need them for supplies."

He came up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. She jumped. "Best deal with Avernus first," he said gently. He was surprised (and slightly pleased) to see she was blushing. For a moment. Until his healing sense tingled again with that... _wrongness._ "How are you feeling?" he asked her.

She shrugged. "I have felt better," she said. He wanted to ask more, but she shrugged off his hand and started towards the doors. "Where is this man? Why did he leave his prisoners alone?"

"He left a few hours ago," Anders said. "Presumably even blood mages have to sleep sometimes."

"Do we wait for him - confront him when he returns? Or do we try to leave now?"

She was looking to him for decisions - decisions she would never have trusted him with a day ago and he realised then just how afraid she was. His instinct was to run - that was always his instinct, but he wasn't sure what defenses Avernus had put into place and he didn't want to risk tripping any more of his traps.

"We should stay here and wait for him," Anders said. "He won't be back until morning - even blood mages have to sleep. We can take turns watching."

She nodded. Anders gathered some mana for a warmth spell - it was still ridiculously cold, and set up a corner of the room for Francesca to sleep in.

"I should take first watch," she said, but he shook his head.

"You feel like you've been asleep," he said, "but you haven't - you've just been unconscious. You lost a lot of blood. Trust me when I say you need sleep more than I do." _And food. And possibly reassurance. Although I could do with a healthy dose of that as well..._

She nodded, and moved to the corner to sleep - not much fun in full armour, he was sure, but she said she was used to it and there was no way she wanted to risk taking it off. Once she was asleep Anders took the opportunity to check her vitals more thoroughly and if possible he was even more puzzled by her condition. He could detect the taint - far more advanced than his own - but there was something more beyond that...

They waited. Francesca took a watch and Anders managed some sleep, although the cold and his own sense of dread made his sleep fraught with nightmares. When dawn light filtered through the windows he was relieved, both that they'd gotten through the night without incident and that the chances of a confrontation with the old blood mage had just increased.

Sure enough, Avernus returned shortly after dawn was fully established. One of the doors opened and he stepped directly into Anders' paralysis trap, a comic expression of surprise on his ancient features.

Francesca snorted. "This man is a fool," she said. Anders doubted that he was - just unused to having to control his charges. Mages didn't usually know how to pick locks, and non-mages didn't know how to do paralysis traps. The combination of the two... well after two hundred or so years he figured Avernus could be forgiven for being a little sloppy.

They cuffed him with his own anti-magic bracers - although they wouldn't help against blood magic the man could hardly use his blood for mana with his hands bound - and sat him in a chair in the workroom once the paralysis had worn off. He didn't speak, simply glared at the two of them while they worked to restrain him. Once Anders was certain he was secure, he sat in a chair opposite to study him. Francesca kept him covered with one of her swords, her entire body tight with repressed fear and fury.

"Right," Anders said. "You're going to tell me _exactly _what you've been doing here. Starting with what you've done to my friend."

Avernus raised one eyebrow and snorted. "And what will I get in return?" he asked.

"Your life," he said.

Francesca swore in Antivan behind him and Anders looked up at her.

"He is a blood mage, _guidata," _she said.

"And?"

_"Egli merita di morire," _she muttered.

Anders cocked an eyebrow and Avernus laughed. "Your pretty friend is no doubt correct," he said. "I do deserve death. I even welcome it. But my work is not finished."

"Your _work _has been to kill my brothers and sisters," Francesca said harshly.

"You know nothing of my work. Tell me, warden, what do _you _feel now?" Francesca shifted from foot to foot as the old man looked up at her. Her face was clouded.

"I feel _wrong,_" she said finally. "You have done something to me... something unnatural..."

"Of course it is unnatural," Avernus spat. "You are infected with the taint. The taint does not come from _nature. _All I have done is unlock its potential. Coursing through your veins is _power."_

"Coursing through her veins is _poison," _Anders said. "What have you done to her?"

"Poison kills," Avernus said. "What I have done... she will be unstoppable."

"She's already pretty unstoppable," Anders said. "And whatever you've done... it's not right."

"Right? Are you _wardens? _Or are you simply soldiers? You were made to fight the darkspawn. I have made her better at that."

"How do we reverse it?" Anders demanded.

Avernus fixed him with a cold stare. "You cannot," he said simply.

Francesca's mouth set in a hard line and she lifted her sword as though to part the mage from his head. "No!" Anders lunged forward and caught her arm. The strength of her swing was such that he nearly buckled from the impact, but he managed to stop her from slaughtering the man. She glared at him as he held her, and he could feel her shaking. "We should take him with us," he said. "Maybe the Commander can talk some sense into him."

Avernus laughed. "How naive of you," he said, "to think that _sense_ in this world has any value. By all means, take me back with you. Your Commander will find my research as invaluable as his predecessor did."

Anders glared at the old man in anger. Aedan had let the man live and offered up wardens to continue his research. The former Commander _sanctioned_ his methods. He had to resist an urge to spit at the taste it left in his mouth.

"We'll take you back with us," Anders said again, and Francesca sighed.

_"Come si desidera," _she said. Anders released her arm and patted her shoulder in reassurance. Nathaniel would convince the man to undo whatever he had done to her.

He had to.


	26. Chapter 26

The shock took a while to sink in over the relief of her unexpected rescue. Alistair, Leliana, Zevran. Why had they come to her? The grim expression on Alistair's face gave her a clue, but the former Templar said nothing to her as they set up camp, merely looked at her - at Ceindrech - as though he could see straight through them.

Something was wrong with all of them. She'd never seen Zevran so sombre - Leliana so.. _quiet. _Alistair she had expected to be more broken than he was - the wreck she'd seen in the cell in Denerim was gone, replaced by something sharper. And his eyes frightened her.

Once the fire was established and food was cooking Alistair threw a look at both Leliana and Zevran who absented themselves with muttered excuses - obviously leaving them alone for a reason. Morrigan did her best to look at him coolly, seated on a log and cradling a fussing Ceindrech in her arms, trying to grasp the easy contempt she had felt for him on the road, but it was difficult. Knowing his connection to Ceindrech, seeing in his face so many things that she saw in her daughter every day, had changed things between them.

"What have you done?" he asked her once they were alone. "What in the Maker's name have you done, Morrigan?"

"I would have thought 'twas quite obvious, Alistair" she said.

He laughed, a short, bitter sound. "Obvious, and utterly unfathomable. _Why did you use me for this?"_

She gazed at him, and felt some of the contempt return. "You could not even begin to comprehend it," she said finally. "Do not even try."

He went tense all over and Morrigan was suddenly afraid of him. She clutched Ceindrech more tightly to her chest. Whatever reaction she might have imagined Alistair having towards their child, this was not it. Not this barely contained fury.

"That child," he pointed, but his voice was shaky, "is setting all my warden senses _on fire,"_ he said. "I haven't told Leliana and Zev, but Maker help me, Morrigan, we're going to be attacked by every darkspawn in Thedas if she continues to broadcast that siren call."

She bowed her head, her worst fears confirmed. _Damn you, Flemeth, _she thought.

"Morrigan!" Alistair leaned forward and grasped her chin in one gauntleted hand. The touch sent an unexpected jolt through her, hard enough to bruise, and she shook herself free angrily. "Morrigan, you have to answer me. I know she's mine - but what else is she?"

"She is Urthemiel," she said. "The soul of the archdemon in a human body."

Alistair sat back at her feet in shock, staring at her and the child. His eyes were wide and his mouth pressed together as he tried to process her words. "How?" he whispered.

"A ritual," she said. "Dark, old magic. Flemeth taught it to me before we left the wilds. She had been waiting for this opportunity for centuries. I was supposed to use Aedan but he... " her lip curled in a snarl. "He refused me. Indeed, he would have killed me, if I had not been too fast for him. You were my only other option."

"Why _me?"_

"Duncan never told you, did he?" she said, raising an eyebrow, taking a moment to enjoy the power _her _knowledge gave her. "What happens when a warden kills an archdemon?"

"He told me enough."

She shook her head. "No. He told you _nothing. _The wardens use ignorance as a weapon," she made no effort to keep the disdain from her voice. "They are soldiers first and foremost - using bodies and weapons rather than minds. How short sighted of them..."

"Morrigan..."

She explained it to him, as she had done to Aedan before him. Alistair, to give him credit, didn't waste time contradicting her, or saying it was impossible, instead he sat still and absorbed her words. When she was finished he closed his eyes, then got to his feet, slowly and painfully, as though he had aged in the short time it took her to explain.

"Damn you," he breathed, reaching behind him. Almost too late, she realised what he was doing and scrambled back out of the reach of the dagger that was suddenly in his hand.

"Stop!" she screamed as his arm plunged down, burying the dagger in the log she had been sitting on seconds before. "Stop, Alistair!"

His hand was still wrapped around the hilt of the dagger, and it was shaking. She cast paralysis instinctively. He was too emotional to resist, despite his Templar training. Ceindrech had started to wail at the unexpected movement and she gasped for air, nauseous with fear for her, and for herself. She got to her feet shakily and stood where Alistair could see her and the baby.

"Alistair, I know you can hear me," she held her power ready to renew the spell as soon as it looked like faltering, "Ceindrech is innocent. My mother assured me that she would not be a beacon for the darkspawn - perhaps she lied - but please, give me a chance to discover if there is a way to save her. Stay with us. Kill her if you must, but not before I _know..."_

The spell faltered and the former Templar surged to his feet, crossing the distance between them faster than Morrigan thought a human could move. She cast again, but he shrugged it off and pulled the child from her arms. Ceindrech's cries were urgent and high and Morrigan joined her, screaming her daughter's name and Alistair's and imploring the Maker she didn't believe in, begging the man in front of her to see reason...

He had the dagger poised but it did not plunge downwards, instead he held the squirming baby in the crook of one arm - her tininess emphasised by his bulk, and she could see the tears falling from his eyes as he looked at his daughter. She stilled, holding her breath, fearing that the slightest movement would mean the child's death.

He raised his head. "I can't sense the taint in her," he said softly.

"She does not carry it," Morrigan replied, trying desperately to keep her voice steady. "The old gods were not tainted until the darkspawn reached them. Alistair _she is not evil._"

She watched him break. The knife fell from his fingers and he bowed his head over the child, his shoulders shaking. Morrigan risked ducking closer, gently taking Ceindrech from his arms, soothing her with gentle sounds and rocks until her crying subsided. Alistair sank down to the ground and buried his head in his hands, gasping for breath. Morrigan watched him, sympathy twisting her gut despite what he had just tried to do. _Tried, and failed, _she thought. _He couldn't do it. Couldn't kill his own daughter._

_Aedan would have. _For the first time she was truly grateful her offer had been rejected by the Cousland boy. Compassion, which she had always seen as weakness, had just saved the life of her child.

It was a long time before either of them moved. When he finally did, Alistair stood up and faced her. "You said Flemeth assured you she wouldn't attract the darkspawn," he said. Morrigan nodded. "Yet it's obvious she does."

"Flemeth would not have bourne being attacked by darkspawn relentlessly, even with all her power," she said. "There must have been a way to stop the call - or suppress it. I thought to find it in her grimoire but.. the grimoire is gone."

"Gone?"

She almost spat, remembering her flight through the Dalish forest. "I was foolish. It was destroyed."

"So," he sighed and looked away. "What were you planning? I don't believe you were just going to sit and wait for the darkspawn to..."

"Of course I wasn't," she snapped. "I was going back to the Wilds. To Flemeth's hut."

Alistair tugged at the ends of his hair. _Too long, _she thought. _He doesn't look like himself any more._ "Well, that's a place to start," he said.

"Do you intend to accompany me?"

"It's obvious you need a warden with you," he said. "If you're going to be walking around with a darkspawn lure having someone who can sense them would surely help?" She opened her mouth to respond but no words came. "It would be best if we could find Flemeth herself, to be honest," he continued after a few moments, chewing his lip in thought. "Although I doubt she'll be hanging around her hut any more."

Morrigan blinked. "But... she's dead," she said. "At the very least, her body is..."

He snorted and looked at her, one eyebrow raised, the ghost of his old animosity in his eyes. "Oh, you think so?" he said.


	27. Chapter 27

_Mille Libri was asking how to pronounce Ceindrech - from this paper: _

_Names of Women of the Brythonic North in the 5-7th Centuries _by Heather Rose Jones (web address: http:/heatherrosejones . com/names/welsh/brythonicnorth/5th-7thbrythonicwomen . html):

_A straightforward linguistic interpretation of the name would understand it as cain "beautiful" + drych "appearance, image". (In all cases, the forms of the name available reflect medieval-era spellings.) If this is so, then the reconstructions of these words found in the GPC and in Falileyev can be greatly helpful, suggesting a Brittonic *kanio-drikk-. In the early 6th century, this would be expected to give us a Latinized written form Caniodricca with a pronunciation along the lines of ['kan-I-DrIx], or in English syllables "KAHN-ih-dhrikh", where "dh" represents the initial sound of "this" and "kh" the "hard" ch of Scottish "loch". _

_Who says I never teach you guys anything?_

_

* * *

_

_"Why _can't you help her?" Aedan was doing his best to keep his tone civil, but truly the mage had given him nothing but vague, inconsistent replies since he had been appointed. Even Anders had never been so infuriating.

"Your Majesty, I am sorry, but the Queen is suffering from an extreme form of morning sickness - it affects many women and it is sometimes fatal. We are doing all we can to keep her hydrated but it is simply a natural reaction to pregnancy in some women..."

"So why can't you stop the nausea and vomiting? Don't tell me you can't - I know there are spells..."

"Your majesty, we could, but it could result in the death of the child and the Queen has expressly forbidden us from doing anything that might endanger him..." Anora had been just as firm with Aedan when he'd suggested something of the sort. "Using any sort of magic on a pregnant woman has risks and we need to be extremely careful. She is far enough along that miscarriage is unlikely, but.." the man wrung his hands, looking for all the world as though he would burst into tears if Aedan so much as growled at him.

Aedan clenched his fists but forced his breath to calm. Anora was right, of course. The child was too important. "Very well," he said. "Go back to her. Do your best." The mage bowed and stammered excuses, backing out as quickly as he could.

Aedan didn't want to admit the main reason he was so anxious for his wife's health. Her indisposition had many of the nobles grumbling at Aedan. He suspected Fergus was behind it. Despite managing to get his vassals to release the grain, despite the drought finally breaking, despite the extreme relief of the Ferelden nobility that there was a strong possibility of a clear line of succession with Anora's pregnancy, grumbles were increasing.

It didn't help that Kylon had gone missing. His guards reported the man dead on the road - dead _and unrecognisable - _that part had been important, but his desertion had all but destroyed their morale, not to mention exposed the distinct lack of talent amongst Denerim's finest. Aedan had appointed the man's second, Carroll, as Captain but he was nothing compared to Kylon and Aedan cursed himself for not recognising the warning signs that the man was not coping.

_Too many threads, _he thought to himself. _Damn it all, why couldn't I have got here when the country was running _smoothly.

Eamon was late for a meeting. Usually that would infuriate him, but Aedan found he needed a moment of contemplation and moved to his study window, looking down on the palace gates. When Eamon finally arrived he found he had regained a measure of composure, but the Chancellor's news did nothing to maintain it.

"More rumours of this White Lady, your majesty," Eamon said, his face grim.

"What now?" Aedan leaned against the window sill and allowed himself the luxury of rubbing his temples.

"She robbed the Gnawed Noble, apparently. Forced all the nobles there to turn out their purses - she had two crossbowmen with her. All masked. No one was able to identify her or her companions."

"We know she's an elf, though?"

Eamon nodded. "It doesn't seem likely she's in the alienage, I'm afraid," he said. "We've searched several times but no one is talking. Even the threat of more violence..."

He sighed. He was somewhat amazed there were still elves left in Denerim. After Loghain's slaving efforts and the riots he would have thought the few that remained would be smart enough to vacate the place. Then again - where would they go? There were so few places in Ferelden where elves were treated any better.

"We need someone to infiltrate the alienage," Aedan said. An elf from another city - one desperate enough to report back to him.

Eamon looked troubled. "I might be able to find someone from Redcliffe," he said, but his tone was dubious.

"Look into it," Aedan said. "Anything further?"

They spent the next two hours going over everyday matters. Aedan had to admit that the old man knew his work - he could see why Alistair thought Eamon was a candidate for the throne - but there was no doubt he disapproved strongly of Aedan and it grated after a while. He was beginning to think it might be an idea to retire the man to Redcliffe - save that his wife was right - having him as chancellor placated those nobles who still thought Alistair should have inherited his father's throne. A little.

Once Eamon had left Aedan made his way to his wife's rooms. She was sitting near the window in a large chair, looking small and pale and vulnerable despite the round swelling of her stomach. A large pitcher of water sat next to her and she was sipping from a goblet every few seconds, a book on her lap. Her eyes were glazed with exhaustion and worry as she looked up at him.

"How are you feeling, my love?" he sat in the chair opposite her. She managed a weak grin.

"Would you enjoy hearing the honest answer?" she replied. "Even water makes me feel ill, yet the healers say I must drink constantly. I tell you, husband, I am forever grateful that Cailan and I never managed to conceive."

_As am I, _he thought. "The healers say it is quite common, this illness," he said. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Indeed," she said. "They also say it will probably last the whole pregnancy." His stomach twisted in sympathy. But he could see Anora shake it off - she _would _deal with it and for that he was grateful. He was extremely lucky to have such a strong woman as his wife. He only wished the pregnancy had not precluded her from performing her usual duties. Aedan had rarely felt so pressed for time or stressed, not even at the height of the Blight, trying to coordinate difficult dwarves and hostile Dalish, not to mention the arrogance of the mages.

"Is there anything you want from me, Aedan?" Anora asked.

He eyed her, noting the deep dark circles under her eyes and the raspiness of her voice. "No, my love," he said. "You rest. Keep our child safe and be well." He got to his feet and gently kissed her cheek, then went to find a messenger.

What he needed, he decided, was a bard. A bard could infiltrate the alienage, provided he or she was also an elf. For that he needed to send word to Orlais. He grimaced, remembering Leliana and his failure at the ashes - if he had managed to convince her to stay with them this would be far easier, as it was he was going to have to rely on old contacts of his father in Val Royeaux to get what he needed. It was going to be slow, as well, and the White Lady was getting bolder with each attack she made.

His pace quickened through the halls of the palace. All the more reason to get started immediately.


	28. Chapter 28

"You're sure about this?" Kylon was frowning, shifting from foot to foot with repressed energy. The scars on his face were healing, but he was still a fearsome sight and wore an eyepatch to cover the mess that was his right eye. Nathaniel couldn't help but smile - the man was invaluable - steady, sensible and experienced with command - exactly what he needed for the wardens. But he was worried that recruitment would expose him to Aedan.

"Much as I agree it wouldn't be a good idea to _advertise _you're with us, Kylon, Aedan couldn't touch you even if he did know who you were. Wardens have the right of conscription. I suspect he believes you're dead in any case. Only myself and Oghren know your true identity. You'll be safer, and more useful with us than you will be anywhere else."

"And you only kill darkspawn," Kylon finished, looking grim. Nathaniel winced.

"Kylon, there are times when we have to kill civilians, but believe me when I tell you that is the best thing we can possibly do. People infected with the taint face a slow, horrible death and they carry the risk of spreading it to others. I promise you I will never order you to kill anyone unless it is completely necessary."

Kylon swallowed. "Well then. I suppose you'll have to call me something else."

Nathaniel nodded.

"Corbin was my mother's name," he said. "It's as good a name as any."

"Well then, Corbin, we need to prepare for your joining."

* * *

Kylon survived. Nathaniel was cheered by it - the man was as solid a fighter and soldier as any he could hope for in the wardens - exactly what he'd been thinking when he started recruiting. The man had experience fighting darkspawn, too, naturally since he'd been in Denerim at the end of the Blight, so a lot of the initial training was simple reinforcement.

Nathaniel went to bed that evening feeling better about his position than he had in a long, long time.

He was woken halfway through the night by pounding on his door. Not an unusual way to wake for him - not in the past year, but he couldn't repress the groan that escaped him at the interrupted sleep. He stumbled out of his bed, pulling a robe around his shoulders, and opened the door.

Anders stood there, looking haggard and more unshaven than usual. "Can I come in?"

Nathaniel stood aside and let the mage stumble into the room. He made straight for Nathaniel's bedside table, pouring a goblet of water from the jug there and gulping it down before collapsing in a chair by the fireplace and rubbing his eyes with both palms.

"I take it you survived, then," Nathaniel said drily, leaning against the bedpost.

Anders chuckled. "Barely."

"You look about to drop. Couldn't whatever it is wait till morning?"

"Not truly. I brought a friend with me. Turns out Soldier's Peak was home to Aedan Cousland's personal blood mage."

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. "You brought him here?"

"It wasn't that simple, but yes, we did," Anders looked up and fixed Nathaniel with weary eyes. "Nate, he's a _monster."_

"The blood mage?"

Anders waved an arm. "Him too. I meant Aedan. You know he wanted you to send Francesca there so the damn malificar would have human subjects to work with?"

"Subjects?"

"The man is _experimenting on wardens. _Like the architect, only less pretty, if that's possible. if I could wring Aedan Cousland's neck right now I'd happily forgo sleep for a few more nights."

"Slow down, Anders. Tell me exactly what happened."

* * *

An hour later Nate was dressed and standing in front of the very cell Aedan had let him out of less than a year before. Anders had left Francesca in Amaranthine - it wouldn't do to have the two of them arrive together after what he'd told Timon about Anders' whereabouts. Anders was noncommittal about her condition, only saying that the blood mage had done something to her he couldn't rule out as being harmless. Nate took in the filthy, ragged, robes, the lined face and anti-magic bracers, and wondered what exactly this wreck of a man could possibly mean to Aedan Cousland. _His own personal blood mage. _Anders words. They made Nathaniel deeply uneasy.

Avernus looked up after a short while, an eyebrow raised. "So," he said, his voice gravelly and wavering with age. "You're Aedan Cousland's replacement?"

"What have you done to my wardens?" Nathaniel said bluntly.

Avernus rolled his eyes. "I suppose your pet circle mage told you I violated her somehow," he said.

Nathaniel almost laughed at hearing Anders being described as such. "Anders isn't a circle mage," he said. "He's a warden. Like you."

_"Whatever it takes," _Avernus said mockingly. "Your boy isn't even a blood mage. The wardens no longer take blights seriously, it seems."

"We take the darkspawn extremely seriously," Nathaniel said. "But I take the safety of my wardens more seriously than anything else. And you have compromised that safety. What did you do to her?"

Avernus got to his feet, shakily, but there was an arrogant tilt to his head. "I made her more powerful," he said simply. "And I can do the same for all your wardens, should you choose to let me. Aedan Cousland knew how valuable my research was. If you are half as intelligent as he, you will see what he saw."

"Forgive me if I do not share the same values as my predecessor," Nathaniel said with a twist of his lips.

Avernus sneered. "Values!" he spat. "What good are they when faced with darkspawn? The blights would tear Thedas apart with people like you in charge of the wardens. Why did the Cousland hand _you _command?"

"'The Cousland' as you so charmingly called him, is married to the Queen of Ferelden," Nathaniel said. Avernus pursed his lips, looking disappointed. Nathaniel considered the old man carefully. "You don't seem pleased," he said finally.

"Kings and Queens don't stop Blights," Avernus said finally. "I had thought better of him."

Nathaniel had to repress a wild urge to laugh. Avernus was possibly the first person he'd ever come across who was disappointed with Aedan for not being single-minded enough. "You will tell me how to reverse what you've done to my warden," Nathaniel said instead.

"It can't be reversed," Avernus said shortly. "I told your pet mage that."

"Then you will research a way," Nathaniel continued. "Ethically. Here in the keep. Believe me when I tell you I will not have my wardens interfered with without consequences."

"I tell you, once done it can't be undone!"

Nathaniel thumped the bars of Avernus' cell hard enough to make the man jump. "Listen to me, old man. When I tell you you're to do something, you will do it. You are still a warden, and you are still under my command. I can have you fed to the broodmothers if I wish. Or I could let Anders have you - believe me when I say you don't want that, whatever your opinions of his character. The man is _very _put out about your research methods. Or instead you could continue your work."

"My work will be useless without subjects to work _with_."

Nathaniel curbed the urge to shout, instead dropping his voice to a soft whisper. "Then it will be useless. But you will still _try."_

Anders was waiting for him anxiously when he got back up to his quarters. "What?" he said wearily.

"What did he say?" the mage asked. "Can he help her?"

Nathaniel sighed and pushed into his quarters, not caring if the mage followed him. "He says not."

Anders caught Nathaniel's arm. "He's _got _to!"

He pulled away from the mage and glared at him. "Anders, I've threatened him, I've talked to him, he still says he can't. I'm going to give him materials and a workshop to work in and I've told him he's to research how to reverse the process, but that's all I _can _do. I can't force the man to talk to us." _Not without sinking far below my father's level, _he added to himself. _And I can't do that. _Anders stood looking at him helplessly. Nathaniel suspected he'd been taking lessons on how to look imploring from his cat. "You don't know what he did to Francesca has even hurt her."

The mage bit his lip and looked away. "You don't get that feeling of _wrong _without... " he clenched his fists. "Look, the man as good as told us he expected us both to die in his experiments. I can't believe he just gave Francesca a... an _upgrade_ out of the goodness of his heart. He was _testing _something."

"Have you noticed anything different about her?" Nathaniel asked. Anders shook his head. "Well then, we can hope Avernus got lucky." Anders opened his mouth to reply, but Nathaniel cut him short. "Anders, there really isn't anything else I can do, not now. Unless you want me to have him killed."

The mage clenched his jaw, but shook his head. "No. No, I'm sorry, Commander. I'll let you rest." He turned to leave, but Nathaniel stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"You rest as well, Anders," he said. "I have a feeling I'm going to need you at your best from here on in."

Anders nodded grimly and left and Nathaniel began stripping off his armour. There were only a few hours left till dawn, but he figured he'd need the sleep as much as Anders did.


	29. Chapter 29

_Sorry for the delay on this chapter. I was... *ahem* distracted by other fics, and celebrations (the Anders thread reached 200 pages! Hooray!) and, you know, STUFF. We are heading into stupidity season and I'm hosting Christmas this year, so there may be a few more delays. I'll try not to let it interfere too much!_

_

* * *

_

_The tips of her hair trailed on his chest as she rode him, her head tipped back, her mouth open in a wordless gasp of pleasure, her eyes closed. He never closed his eyes when he was with her - to deny them the sight of such unrestrained ecstasy would be the greatest of crimes._

_He held her hips and guided her faster, thrusting upwards as his passion started to overcome him. The edges of a smile started to form at the corners of her mouth and her silent gasps became voiced..._

_...but the voice was wrong, somehow. Darker, rougher... _damaged.

_Liquid was pouring into his eyes suddenly, although paradoxically he could still see. She leant forward, the grin on her lips turning to a grimace, the gaping wound in her throat pouring so much blood that he was in danger of drowning._

_"You did this to me," she said, her voice gravelly and ravaged. "You killed me, my love, my life, my soul. _

_...Zevran..."_

He woke gasping. The same nightmare. Every night, since they had left Antiva city.

His body was sweat soaked and he was disoriented. The room was moving - _he _was moving. There was noise - ah, now he remembered, the creak of ropes and wooden boards - a ship. From the Free Marches to Amaranthine - jewel of the coast. Not _quite _as bad as sailing into Denerim, but still, a move with all the subtlety of an ox.

He lifted his head from the bunk to see Alistair on the bunk across from him, also awake, shirtless, sitting upright and watching him.

"Is it your custom, _mio caro, _to watch others while they sleep?"

"I'm not like Shale, if that's what you're implying," the other man said with a wry grin. "You were talking. I thought you were awake."

Zevran cursed himself. Talking in one's sleep was a crime amongst people such as he. The potential to give so much away was sickening. That he was doing so was unforgivable - had he still been with the Crows he would have been forced to order his own racking.

"What did I say?"

Alistair shrugged. "Something in Antivan," he said. "It sounded interesting though. Dreams?"

Zevran ran his hand through his too-short hair and tutted. "Possibly, possibly," he said. "We all have dreams, you know, save for our shorter friends. No doubt mine are more interesting than most."

"No doubt," the warden said. "Although I think darkspawn dreams could give you a run for your money there."

Zevran sat up, eyeing the other man in interest. They had not spoken with each other alone since that night outside Antiva City. Alistair had given very little explanation for why they were traveling back to Ferelden - simply saying that Morrigan needed something from her mother (oh, and the shouting match that had ensued when the apostate found out _she _was still alive!). Zevran had at first intended to leave them - his part of their bargain fulfilled when they came upon the woman in the forests, but he could not kid himself that he was safe in Antiva any longer, and Ferelden was at least familiar to him.

The only thing he knew for certain was that he did not wish to be alone. Not yet.

Alistair was looking at Zevran critically, and Zevran wondered what he was thinking. During the Blight he had been an open book - and a short one at that. Nowadays Zevran was unsure exactly what was going through his mind.

Or perhaps it was his own mind he no longer knew.

"Get back to sleep, Alistair," Zevran said. "I shall endeavor not to wake you again."

* * *

Alistair's plan was to stop in at Vigil's Keep to speak with - of _all _people - Nathaniel Howe. Zevran had thought him insane until Alistair had explained their encounter with him in the Free Marches. That the man had not given Alistair's identity away despite being recruited into the wardens under Aedan's command was enough for Zevran to believe he could be trusted. But a Howe? Zevran remembered the man in the dungeons of his estate - an estate littered with devices he was all too familiar with - that he could produce offspring that were even marginally sane seemed far-fetched.

The trip to the keep was only a day and the ship had landed on the dawn tide, so they did not bother with an inn in the town. Alistair especially seemed keen not to stay in one place for any length of time. At the keep they were stopped by regular guards. Alistair spoke to them briefly and showed them a pendant he wore around his neck which seemed sufficient to gain them entrance. They were shown to an office.

Nathaniel Howe entered shortly afterwards. He wasted no time. "Every warden in the keep is on alert," he said. "My Orlesian and Antivan wardens are saying some _truly _disturbing things. What in Thedas have you done, Alistair?"

The former Templar swallowed and looked at Morrigan. "It's a long story, Nathaniel," he said. "But..."

"Alistair..." Morrigan's voice was sharp with anger, and Zevran got the impression she was continuing an earlier argument.

"Enough, Morrigan," Alistair said. "I'll protect her, but these are _wardens. _They deserve to know what's going on."

"And we do not?" Leliana's voice was soft and Zevran noticed Alistair wince.

"You haven't _told _them?" Nathaniel looked thunderous, although with that nose Zevran doubted he could easily look otherwise.

Alistair groaned and sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands. Morrigan eyed him for a moment, then scooped Ceindrech out of her sling. She was awake, and cheerful - and no one looking at her red-blond hair could possibly doubt she was Alistair's child as well as Morrigan's. The apostate knelt in front of Alistair and he raised his head to look at her.

"Here," she said, although Zevran could see the reluctance the woman had to pass her child to anyone else. Alistair reached for Ceindrech and cradled her gently in his large hands. _"Now _tell them."

Zevran was shocked to see the other man's eyes glistening with unshed tears. He took a shaking breath, pulled the child to his chest, and began.

The Commander paced the room once Alistair had finished. Morrigan was hovering over them, obviously trying not to snatch the girl back from her father. It was the longest he had seen her without the babe in her arms since they'd met again in the forest. Finally, Howe stopped pacing and fixed Morrigan with a glare. "If I were to kill her," he said, "would I die as well?"

Morrigan shrugged. "'Tis certainly possible," she said. "Mother did not inform me what would happen when Ceindrech died. Considering she is no longer tainted I doubt the soul would seek out another darkspawn or warden, however. The pull that existed when she was an archdemon no longer exists."

"Yet she still emits the calling," Howe mused. Alistair nodded.

"It's not as strong as the call of the archdemon," he said.

"My Orlesian wardens said as much," Howe said. "Still, I expect the deep roads entrance to be attacked any moment. There's no way the darkspawn aren't hearing it."

"That we were attacked in the open confirms that much," Morrigan agreed. "The darkspawn traveled for several weeks to reach Ceindrech when I was with the Dalish."

"Yet the group was not large," Howe continued.

"I've been thinking about that," Alistair said. "Considering most of the darkspawn are still underground following the call of the other two old gods, I wouldn't be surprised if Ceindrech is only drawing those who are above ground - or far enough away from _that _call to be distracted."

"What Alistair says makes sense," Morrigan said, and Zevran was slightly surprised the world didn't immediately end at her words. He caught Leliana's eye, who also had the ghost of a smile on her face. Morrigan and Alistair agreeing with each other? "I was only attacked twice in the forests of Antiva, and we were not attacked on the way here, despite there being deep roads under Amaranthine."

"So we have no way of knowing what will happen if we kill her. The soul could very well seek out someone else, or it could be destroyed..." Howe sank his head onto his chest in thought. He favoured his father, Zevran thought, but there was none of the cold cruelty in his eyes that Zevran remembered from Rendon Howe. The apple had fallen far from the tree, it seemed. "She is a threat to you - Morrigan - and anyone who accompanies you," Howe continued, "but if you intend on taking her to your mother's hut in the Kocari Wilds it's unlikely you'll place others in danger. I would ask that you avoid populated places on your journey, however." Morrigan clasped her hands in front of her, obviously hopeful. Howe crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't like this Alistair. But if you're intent on taking the child away at least there'll be a warden nearby."

Alistair sighed. "I won't ask anyone else to come with us."

"That's probably wise. In the meantime, though, you'll be safer in the Vigil than anywhere else. After all, we'd only be going down to hunt the darkspawn out. Easier if they come to us."

Alistair chuckled. "You know, I hadn't thought of it that way. Thank you, Nathaniel."

Howe pulled a cord behind him to call for a servant. As they were leaving to be shown to rooms, however, Nathaniel stopped Zevran and Leliana. "I'd like a word, if you will," he said. Alistair glanced at them both, then at Nathaniel, but he was still carrying Ceindrech, and Morrigan hustled him out.

"Go, Alistair," Leliana said. "We'll see you in a moment."

Once they were alone Nathaniel motioned for them to sit. "Naturally I don't have to tell you that the warden secrets we've discussed don't go any further," he said. Leliana nodded, as did Zevran. "The easiest solution for that, of course, would be to induct you both into the order. But I will not conscript you, if you do not wish it."

Zevran looked at Leliana who's mouth was open in shock. He knew what his own answer would be, but he was uncertain about the bard. The Commander looked at them both, obviously waiting for a reaction.

"For my part, I prefer not to be tied down to an organisation," Zevran said finally. "For the moment. If you do not mind. I assure you, my discretion is absolute. No warden secrets will be revealed through me. Even," he spread his arms and allowed a smile to spread over his lips "should someone take it upon themselves to torture me for them."

Howe cocked an eyebrow, then turned his eyes on Leliana. She looked confused, and hurt, and Zevran wondered how much of that hurt came from seeing Alistair with Ceindrech. "I... do not know what to say... " she stammered, biting her lip.

"You don't have to decide right now," Howe said. "But even if you don't choose to become wardens, I believe I have work for both of you."

"Work?" Zevran said.

Howe smiled. "I can recognise a fellow assassin when I see one, my friend," he said. "And Leliana is a bard."

"True," Zevran said. "I can assume, then, that the work you have for us is of a... covert kind?"

Howe nodded. "Indeed it is. I have need of eyes in Denerim."


	30. Chapter 30

Francesca was practicing forms on the training field when he found her. He took a moment to admire the way she moved - so graceful and full of strength, before she turned and saw him - no doubt sensing his presence. Anders hadn't mastered the art of telling when another warden was close to him - the taint was too subtle in them for him to feel, but the older wardens assured him it came with time.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her when she came over, sheathing her swords and smiling. All trace of her fear of him seemed to have gone and he was grateful for it.

_"Guidata _your concern is touching but unnecessary. I feel fine. _Buono._ In fact, better than fine."

"You said you haven't been sleeping..."

"Not because I feel unwell. Because I feel _well. _I do not _need_ to sleep." Anders cocked his head, tugging at his ponytail and biting his lip. It was taking all of his control not to go down to Avernus' cell and beat some answers out of him, but Nathaniel had forbidden him to go near the old mage - at least until he could control his temper.

"Don't be angry with him," Nathaniel had said. "The man is obsessed, and crazy, and possibly evil, but remember he wouldn't have been enabled without..."

_"Aedan," _Anders had finished.

They sat on the benches at the edge of the field and Francesca begain unbuckling her armour. Once her breastplate and greaves were removed and she sat in her undershirt and breeches, she turned and looked at him with an amused glint in her brown eyes. "Truly, _Guidata _you do not need to be so worried about me. I have not felt this well since just after my joining."

He frowned. "When was that?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "Do you wish to ask me my age, _Guidata?"_

"Will you stop calling me that?" he said. "I have a name. And no, you don't need to tell me how old you are, I just..."

"Just what?"

"I want to know how close you are to the Calling," he finished in a rush.

Her eyes opened wide in surprise. "Why are you shy about asking this?" her mouth worked in what looked like amusement. "Anders?"

"Well, it's tantamount to asking when you're going to die," he said, shifting in his seat uncomfortably.

"True. I suppose you have not been around wardens who are close before."

He bit his lip and shook his head. The thought of the Calling - of _his _Calling - filled him with cold dread. The thought of _her _Calling made him nauseous.

"I joined the wardens twenty-five years ago," she said.

"So... "

"My Calling will come in the next five years. Probably earlier. Most do not make it to fifty, no matter when their joining was. I suppose... age starts to play its part, not just the corruption of the darkspawn."

He looked at her and she gave him a lopsided grin that made her seem much, much younger.

"I am forty and six years, Anders," she said. "So you see, no matter what he has done... it does not truly matter. I am so close..."

He held up his hand to stop her. "Don't say that," he said. "If he has shortened your time by one second - _one second _I'll flay him alive."

Francesca laughed. "Are you my protector now, _Guidata_?" He blushed. "So many years, it's been, since a young man wanted to _protect _me. I find I am... how is it you say... _lusingato..._.?"

"Flattered," he said, smiling slightly. "You're not the first woman to accuse me of it. But you don't need protecting." He remembered that he had singularly failed at that, up on the peak. If he'd been more vigilant they might never have walked into those traps. He frowned. "Not by me at any rate."

She reached out and touched his arm. "Thank you, Anders," she said. He felt a flare of warmth where her hand was resting on his arm and he swallowed, suddenly aware of her as a woman in a way he hadn't truly been before now. _So close to the Calling,_ he thought. _Maker's blood, if I had known what I know now before I joined..._

She seemed to see a little of what he was thinking because she gently removed her hand. _"Il mio amico,_" she said softly. "I do not think that is wise."

He pursed his lips in sudden amusement. "Oh, wise and me, they don't go very well together," he said.

Francesca smiled delightedly. He stood, captured her hand in one of his and kissed it with a flourish. "Go away!' she laughed at him, pulling her hand back and swatting. "I am old enough to be your _madre, idiota uomo."_

"Never," he said. "You are as young as spring, and just as lovely."

_"Go."_

_

* * *

_

He found Pounce (who had been plaintively wondering around Soldier's Peak for the entire time they'd been captured) sulking in the kitchen because the cook wouldn't give him fish, and went to visit Nathaniel. He'd finally decided what it was they needed to do and he needed to flesh it out with the Warden Commander before he acted on it independently. Sod the man if he wouldn't agree with him - things were getting too bad _everywhere _for this to continue. Francesca's condition was a catalyst, not the cause and Anders for the first time in his life felt part of a bigger picture.

One that was going _wrong._

Nathaniel was in his office, obviously disturbed by the new arrivals - Anders had, with every other warden in the Keep, felt the call of the child they'd brought. Nathaniel had obviously known the warden who accompanied them and Anders had been curious - the man was Ferelden and Anders had thought all the Ferelden wardens dead at Ostagar, save Aedan and the bastard son of Maric who had been executed afterwards. Maybe this man had been stationed in Orlais - he knew it wasn't unheard of for wardens to move countries.

"Come in, Anders. I wanted to talk to you."

"Oh, _happy_ coincidence!" Anders said. Nathaniel rolled his eyes and motioned him to a chair.

"I'm beginning to think we have to do something about Aedan Cousland," Nathaniel said.

* * *

Two hours later he was humming happily to himself as he made his way down to the kitchens. He was crossing the courtyard when he caught sight of the beautiful red-haired woman who had come with the new arrivals, sitting under the statue of Andraste with her head resting against her feet. Her eyes were closed, and Anders took the time to admire her form - truly she was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen.

"Are you enjoying the view?" she said, her eyes not opening, but a small smile playing over her lips. Rich, Orlesian accent. _Lovely._

Anders, never one to let embarrassment stop him from enjoying himself, grinned. "I do so love artists representations of our holy lady," he said.

She opened her eyes and smiled up at him. They clear and blue and large, although there was a melancholy behind them too that made her even more beautiful. "I find she still gives me comfort," she said. Anders took the opportunity to sit next to her.

"Is there any particular reason you need comforting?" he asked.

She cocked an eyebrow. "Are you going to offer me a spell to make me feel better?" she said.

"Spells weren't quite what I had in mind."

She laughed. "Shameful man," she said. "Who are you?"

He bent his head. "Anders, at your service, m'lady. You arrived with the other warden... and the baby that..."

Her merry demeanor disappeared abruptly and she looked away. "I did," she said.

"Ah. So it's something to do with them that has you seeking solace with our lady..."

She wasn't listening to him any more, her eyes fixed on the stairs that led up into the keep. Anders followed her gaze to see the warden she had come with standing, looking down at her. He was _looming. _Recognising the signs (he was too familiar with jealousy from others not to) Anders grimaced and got to his feet, sensing he was most definitely not wanted. "I'll take my leave," he said.

As he made his way back towards the kitchens he glanced back to see the two of them facing each other next to the statue of Andraste, sunlight glinting off their hair - dark red and light - making a nimbus around them. _I'm sure there's a _very _interesting story behind _that. He thought to himself, then shrugged. It if was important Nathaniel would let him know.

_He_ had a cat to feed, and a revolution to plan.


	31. Chapter 31

Alistair watched the blond mage leave, fuming a little - the man had _obviously _been flirting with her - but fuming only a _little_, because truly, how could any man not? She was more beautiful every single sodding day, and he felt like a total cad every time he looked at her. And now he had to leave without her.

"Alistair," she said, smiling sadly. He closed the distance between them. "Walk with me?" she asked. He nodded, still unable to speak, and they made their way up to the battlements of the keep. "Nathaniel made me an offer," she said, once they got there, leaning against the wall, looking out over the countryside. "Two, actually. I wanted to.. ask you what you thought before I gave him a definite answer."

"I'll give you my opinion, for what it's worth," he said, wondering what the man could have offered her. Marriage? Money? "What were they?"

"He wanted me and Zevran to spy for him, in Denerim. Find out what Aedan's up to, see if the man has any obvious weaknesses..."

Alistair nodded. "Work you'd excel at," he said, guardedly.

She sighed. "I don't know if I have it in me any more," she said softly. "I don't know that _Zev _has it in him any more either to be honest. But I'll go... if..."

"If what?"

She turned and faced him. "If you don't want me to go with you."

His heart skipped a beat. "You.. you'd come with me? To Flemeth?"

She nodded. "If you want me..."

"If I _want _you... _maker's breath..."_ he heaved in air that was suddenly too thick. "It will be so dangerous... "

"Nothing to what we faced during the Blight," she said.

He smiled and shrugged. "True."

"You don't want me to come," she said.

"No! No, no, that's not it at all..." He ran a finger though his too-long hair. "Lelli, I just don't want you getting hurt because of me."

She laughed a little at that and he cursed inwardly. This whole damned journey was an exercise in him hurting her. "What was the other offer?" he asked after an awkward pause.

"He offered to make both me and Zevran wardens," she said.

Alistair was gripped by sudden panic. Daveth's face, and Jory's and Benjamin at _his _joining - the blank stare, the coughing, gasping death, all flashed in front of his eyes and before he knew it he had grabbed her by the arms. "Andraste's blood, Leliana, tell me you said _no..."_

Her eyes went wide with shock "Alistair!" she said. "What...?"

"Please! You don't know..."

"I haven't told him yet. Alistair... why... why don't you think I _could _be..." He didn't think, just pulled her to him, overwhelmed by relief.

"Thank the maker," he breathed, lifting a hand to stroke her hair. She didn't struggle against his embrace, but leaned into it, her head on his chest and he suddenly realised he was holding her - holding her in a way he'd dreamed of for months - _years _and she _wasn't _pulling away and..

She lifted her head and looked at him and he traced a finger over her lips, hardly daring to believe she hadn't bolted. But her eyes were hurt, and he realised there was a sore spot there, one that had been present since they first met on the ship to the Free Marches. "Lelli, it's not that I don't think you could be a warden," he said. "You'd be magnificent. But the joining..." she already knew so many warden secrets. One more - if it saved her life - was worth betraying an oath that was already fractured into pieces. "The joining can _kill _you. They don't put that in the recruitment speech. I can't believe Nathaniel even offered..."

Her eyes had gone wide and understanding. "Oh," she said. He nodded at her, his finger still lingering at her jawline, touching the smooth, flawless skin. She was so _warm_... Her arms were still at her sides, but it seemed so natural to dip his head towards her lips and _taste..._

Before he knew it he was pressing her up against the wall of the battlements, hands tangled in her hair as their mouths greedily devoured each other. He groaned into her mouth as she brought her arms up onto his back and pressed him closer, her hips grinding against his making desire flare through every inch of his body.

"'Tis hardly the best place for a tryst," came a familiar voice, dripping with sarcasm. Alistair's head whipped round to see Morrigan, standing in the courtyard below them with Ceindrech on her hip, glaring up. "The entire keep can see you."

Alistair resisted an urge to smite her where she stood. Not with his daughter on her hip like that, in any case. Leliana still had her arms around him and he heard her _giggle _and suddenly, completely, things were much _much _better.

"Don't you have anything better to do than stalk me, Morrigan?" he said. "We leave tomorrow, in case you've forgotten."

"Of course I haven't forgotten, you bumbling idiot. 'Tis why I was trying to find you. We need to plan the best route and organise supplies."

Alistair frowned at her, then looked back at Leliana. The bard's eyes were clearer now, and her lips - reddened from what they'd been doing - curled up at the edges. "Go," she said. "We'll have time for this later."

He cocked his head on one side and raised an eyebrow. "We'd _better," _he growled at her.

* * *

"Do you not think it irresponsible, Alistair?" Morrigan said as he joined her in the courtyard.

He glared at her. "Irresponsible?"

"To carry on with that woman under your current circumstances?"

"Which are what, precisely?" he asked her, not bothering to soften his tone. "I was under the impression I was a free agent, at least in _that _regard."

She looked flustered. "Of course you are," she said stiffly. "It is simply that we must leave tomorrow or risk attracting..."

"Leliana's coming with us," he said, enjoying the way the witch's lips pressed into a hard line at the words. "Morrigan..." it was too delicious an opportunity to pass up, although he knew he would probably pay for it later "are you _jealous?"_

"Bah!" she looked on the verge of slapping him. "Be silent." Alistair grinned.

As they poured over maps, however, her words came back to him. Truly, what was he expecting, if they managed to find a way to save Ceindrech? Would he be happy for Morrigan to take the child away again? Holding her in Nathaniel's office earlier had been... overwhelming. He'd been terrified of breaking her at first, but holding her against his chest, breathing in her scent - he didn't ever want to let go of her again. His _daughter..._

And if Morrigan didn't want to escape him? What then? Despite his bastardy, Alistair had firm concepts of what constituted a family, and apostate witch, oathbreaking warden and former Orlesian spy was not it. Would Leliana even _want _to stay near him if he was tied down to a woman he had always hated because she was the mother of his child? Would Leliana even want to stay with him, period? It seemed incredible that mere minutes ago he'd been _kissing _her - and she'd been quite enthusiastically kissing him back...

"Alistair, for the sake of the old gods, _focus." _Morrigan said. Alistair pulled his mind back from the extremely pleasant memory and looked back down at the map, glad that his new beard hid most of his blush.

Ceindrech took that opportunity to gurgle delightedly and Alistair felt his heart twist as Morrigan turned her attention to the child, smiling a soft smile that was completely at odds with her earlier tone. She _was _beautiful, the baby. Alistair had a lot of trouble remembering what she represented and it was possibly because it was tied up in the whole idea that she was _his _but it was also, just because she was, no matter what else, a _child. _

He wasn't used to feeling this conflicted. When he'd been Alistair, templar initiate he'd had very clear goals. Granted those goals had been mainly _get me the hell out of here _but they were clear cut. Once Duncan had recruited him, being the best Grey Warden he could be had been his goal, then the Blight had happened and well, if there was one thing that could coalesce one's purpose it was _revenge. _He had been honest with himself, that one night in the cell in Fort Drakon. Ending the Blight had been secondary to him. Killing Loghain had been what mattered.

With one act Aedan had taken that purpose away from him and tried to take his life along with it. But Morrigan had saved him.

Those first few weeks, on the ship to the Free Marches, traveling with Leliana he'd felt... lost. When Isolde and Eamon had shipped him off to the Chantry he hadn't felt as abandoned, when Duncan died, he hadn't felt more orphaned. Whoever would have guessed purpose was so important? When the dream came, when he _knew _he had to find Morrigan the world had shifted back into focus.

Once he found Flemeth and the answers they needed it was very possible it would shatter apart again and the thought made his breath come faster and pressure build behind his eyes.

"Alistair are you utterly useless?" Morrigan said. He looked up at her again, blinking. Truly, her barbs didn't sting the way they used to. He always thought it was because he had changed, but for the first time he suspected that there was a little bit of fondness in her tone. "By all that is holy, one woman kisses you and you become... even_ more _of a blithering fool..."

His lips twitched in amusement. _Not just any woman, _he thought to himself, and again he remembered the feel of Leliana's lips against his own. He took a deep breath, pushing his worries to the back of his mind. There was a job to be done. This time he was going to do it _right._

"Do me a favour, Morrigan," he said "and shut up."


	32. Chapter 32

Aedan was in the practice field. It was early morning, he'd checked on Anora who for once seemed to be sleeping peacefully before making his way down to the armoury, accompanied by just his one guard. They were used to his morning habits by now. Often he could convince them to spar with him, but today he simply concentrated on forms, sword and shield, block, parry, bash, pummel - many of his moves he'd learned from Alistair during the Blight. Whatever else he thought of the man he had been a skilled warrior. Experience on the field counted for far more, he'd discovered, than the most expensive tutors the Couslands could hire, and that first flight up the Tower of Ishal through wave upon wave of darkspawn had taught Aedan that he couldn't afford to be complacent about his skills, not when his life depended on it.

He was halfway through his normal routine of exercises when the messenger arrived.

"Your majesty, urgent news..." the man certainly looked as if it was urgent. Aedan sighed and set aside his practice sword, mopping his brow with a cloth as he made his way over.

"What is it, man?" he said.

"There's been an attack on the Arl of Denerim's estate."

... _ah..._

Washed and dressed and back in his office, Aedan truly wondered why this hadn't happened earlier. The White Lady had been targeting nobles left right and centre, but the Arl of Denerim had been conspicuously absent from her list of targets. He had called for Vaughn to attend to him but in the meantime his new captain of the guard updated him on the specifics.

"Happened early this morning - they broke in on the west side of the estate. Got as far as the kitchens before they were noticed..."

"Who does that man _employ for guards...?" _Aedan forced out through gritted teeth. "How many were there?"

"That's the strange thing. There were only two of them. Usually she takes at least three others when she attacks... this time.."

"Tell me we caught her?"

The Captain shook his head ruefully. "They got out. I am sorry... your majesty."

Aedan waved a hand. "Not your fault, Carroll," _Kylon would have managed it.._ "Do you duty, man. Keep watching for her. We _must _stop her, she is igniting the people."

That was the real problem. The White Lady had managed what no other elf had ever managed in Denerim - she had actually increased sympathy and awareness of the plight of the elves. She was a romantic figure - robbing only from the wealthy, killing only those with a reputation for violence and bigotry. The common people of Denerim had taken to toasting her in taverns, whispering that she was a force for good, despite being an elf, or even because of it.

For Aedan, she represented his mistakes. Yet going over the past year, he could not see any way he could have avoided the current level of unrest. His actions had been driven by necessity. The people, however, chose to see necessity as cruelty.

The alienage had been deathly quiet and dutiful since the last food riot. The city guards had killed probably twenty of them before the rest had wisely fled - mostly young hotheads. He'd not taken a census of the number of elves in the alienage after the Blight, but he suspected the number of young men had reduced drastically, leaving older, wiser heads in charge.

It was for the best. At least, it had been until the White Lady had emerged.

By the time Vaughn Kendalls got to the palace Aedan was deep in correspondence.

The man gave a perfunctory bow which Aedan acknowledged with a raised eyebrow and a nod before he sprawled in a chair across from his desk.

"I tell you, Aedan, these elves should be locked up like the vermin they are. Loghain had the right idea. Ship them off to Tevinter..."

"Vaughn, do you have a point?"

"It was that Shianni bitch. I'll bet you ten silvers..."

Aedan lifted his head from his paperwork to eye the man. They had been... not exactly friends, but frequent acquaintances during his youth. On his few trips to Denerim as a young man Vaughn had attempted to involve Aedan in his drunken schemes. A trip to the Pearl, some drinking in taverns - but the one time Vaughn had tried to get Aedan interested in a trip to the alienage Aedan had refused. He was stupid, and arrogant, and everything Aedan despised about the Ferelden nobility, but if he had information... "Who?"

Vaughn seemed to sense that he'd caught Aedan's attention and shifted in his seat. "Ah.. back before the Blight... there was an... incident with some of the elves in the alienage..."

"What kind of incident?"

"I... nothing important. But one of the bitches took it awry. She brained me with a flagon. I do believe I still have the scar..."

"She _brained _you?" Aedan rose and moved slowly to the front of his desk. "Vaughn, I suggest you give me the entire story _immediately."_

It blurted out of him. There had been rumours about Uriens and his habits regarding the alienage, it was why Aedan had refused Vaughn's youthful invitation, but not even the old bigot had been stupid enough to disrupt a wedding. No wonder the elves had been so quick to riot.

Aedan almost ordered the idiot executed on the spot, save that he was, all evidence to the contrary, actually extremely useful as Arl. He had Antivan trade contracts without which Denerim could easily have fallen bankrupt in the difficult months following the Blight.

Coldly furious, Aedan sat back down behind his desk to compose himself before he replied. "Firstly, if I hear of a repeat of this kind of behaviour from you or _any _of the banns under you I shall have you all _flayed _and exiled." Vaughn looked about to argue, but Aedan held up a finger and the man wisely kept his mouth shut. "Secondly, is this Shianni woman still alive? Do you know?"

Vaughn shrugged. "I have no idea," he said. Aedan had a vague memory of a red haired woman in the alienage just before the landsmeet - she had been acerbic and arrogant and screamed trouble. That she had been held by Vaughn and his cronies for four days before being released - having been kidnapped on her cousin's wedding day - well that went a long way to explaining her immediate dislike of everyone in their party.

He dismissed Vaughn and called Carroll back to him. If Shianni was still alive, he needed to see her.

It was a day before they brought her to him. He was in a meeting with the palace guard down in the barracks when Carroll brought her in. Aedan dismissed the guard and turned to face her.

Short, but all elves were short. Almost absurdly lovely, even for one of her kind, although the effect was somewhat spoiled by the hard, hunted look in her eyes and the beligerence of her stance. She curtseyed deeply when he approached and he admired the curve of her neck and the paleness of her skin as she rose.

"Shianni, I presume?" he said. She nodded. He dismissed his guards and directed her towards his office.

They walked quite close together and he could feel the tension vibrating from her. No wonder, given the last time she'd probably been alone with a human lord. He gently steered her inside and bade her sit.

"May I ask why I've been brought here, your majesty?" she asked, a slight tremor to her voice.

"I imagine you don't believe it's for anything good," he said, smiling slightly. She didn't smile back. He didn't suppose he was particularly popular with any elf at present, so he didn't blame her. "I understand there was an... incident. Before the Blight. With the Arl of Denerim."

She flinched. "Why is that important?" she paused and looked at him. He raised an eyebrow.

"Aside from the fact that I'm taking steps not to let it happen again, I wanted to know who the injured parties were. You are due some compensation."

She snorted. _"Compensation?" _she said. "What compensation could you possibly offer?"

"From what I understand your cousin's betrothed attacked them with a sword. Carrying a weapon outside the alienage is punishable by death in any case. You're lucky you weren't killed as well."

_"Lucky?" _He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at her. She shook her head. "We don't need compensation. We just need to be left alone. We've lost too much." _Thanks to you _was unspoken, but the words hung in the air so palpably that she may as well have spoken them out loud.

"Tell me the names of those who were taken with you and I'll see that some compensation is given to those families," he said. "Along with my assurance that the Arl of Denerim has been suitably... restrained."

Shianni got to her feet. "Are we finished here, _your majesty_?" she said.

"The names, please," Aedan said.

She fixed him with a hard stare. "There were six of us. One was killed by his guards. Another died when you decided slaughtering my people was easier than feeding them," he blinked that she could be so blunt, but allowed her to continue without interrupting. "The other three... " she swallowed. "Your majesty, you must understand that if it were to get out what happened these women's reputations would be _ruined."_

"Your people see rape as the woman's fault then?" Aedan said, raising an eyebrow. "I had thought they were more enlightened."

Shianni's fists clenched and she looked ready to hit something. "We're not like that," she said. "We're _not. _But it's been _years. _We just.. we just want to move on."

"Surely coin will help you do that?"

She let out a sigh. "Fine," she said. "But let me talk to them first, please? I don't want your guards to turn up on their doorstop without warning... your majesty."

Aedan shrugged, and allowed her to leave, although inwardly he seethed. He suspected Shianni knew full well why he was interested in her, although she was cagey and difficult to read. There was no indication she knew that there had been an attack on the Arl, for instance. That news had been kept very quiet indeed. If she _had _known about it - well it was obvious from her stance she was not a fighter, but the possibility that the woman in front of him was the White Lady had occurred to him. That there were three other women who could also hold enough of a grudge against the Arl to want him dead - that was more information than he had available two days ago.

And he knew, truly, it was too little too late. The elves were his enemies now - the White Lady - their symbol of hope. They would not give her up willingly. He chewed on his lip in frustration and went to find Eamon.


	33. Chapter 33

Zevran disliked covering his tattoo, but there was too much risk that Aedan or his guard would recognise him should he display it openly. Make-up was too easily removed so he had resorted to a dye mixture - Anders the mage had helped him with components before he left the Vigil, and he had applied it with some distaste - it smelled foul and would last several weeks, enough time to gather information for Nathaniel. A different hairstyle and armour would be enough to disguise the rest of him - Zevran was used to passing unseen amongst people who knew him.

Looking at the sprawl of Denerim from a rise outside the city he remembered clearly the last time he had stood in the same spot - as Anora spoke to the troops with Aedan standing beside her, both of them golden and glorious. Zevran had been resigned, ready to die fighting darkspawn as he should have died when he failed his contract. On the top of Fort Drakon he had almost laughed to discover himself alive when so many others were dead. Loghain, Alistair, Taliesin... _Rinna. _He had imagined he felt the ghosts of their missing companions - Leliana and Wynne and Morrigan - each of them disapproving of him in their own way.

During the long trudge back down to street level he had debated leaving immediately but something had kept him in the city until the coronation. Some part of him had wished to see the story _ended._

Yet here he was again.

He spent some time in the market district before seeking a place to stay, in and out of The Gnawed Noble (where he was taken for a servant and ignored) and the Pearl (where Sanga offered him work) and the various shops and stalls. People wore hunted looks and avoided his eyes when he spoke, their reactions to his elvishness enough to let him know that people were uneasy and tension was high - but not exactly in the way he had anticipated.

As an elf he had to seek accommodation in the alienage. Despite what other travelers may have thought - there _was _an inn there, although a few pallets on the floor of an apartment near the warehouse wasn't exactly what most people would expect, if they weren't elves. He paid the frightened looking woman a handful of coppers and dumped his belongings.

"Why are you here?" she asked, hovering at the door of the room. Three others were staying there - he noted from the piles of gear strewn next to other bedrolls - probably itinerant workers judging by the quality of the clothes.

"Pardon?"

"Why are you here?" she repeated. "Denerim isn't exactly a good place to be - for us."

"For elves, you mean?" She nodded mutely. "I shall not be here for long. I am on my way to Gwaren."

"From Antiva?" he looked at her. "Your.. your accent, ser."

_"Si," _he said, smiling slightly. She wasn't a young woman, this one, cares and worries weighed heavily on her. "I have need of work, _cara signora. _Is there a good place to ask?"

"The nobles are always looking for servants," she said, eyeing him. "You're handsome enough to ask at the Chancellor's estate, or even the Couslands, ser. But I'd avoid the Arl of Denerim if I were you."

Zevran nodded. "I prefer not to work for nobility," he said.

"There's work with the reconstruction crews," she said, curling her lip a little. Obviously she thought he was mad, to try to work in heavy labour rather than as a servant, where the rewards and perks were many, even if the lords and ladies sometimes expected more than just service from their elves. "You'd be strong enough, I wager."

"Indeed," Zevran said, giving her his most charming smile. She blushed and looked down. "Thank you, _cara signora."_

She left him and he sat cross legged on the pallet, gathering his thoughts and planning his strategy. Even before he reached Ferelden he had heard rumours of the brutal treatment of the Denerim alienage elves, and Nathaniel had confirmed it. Riots that were ended with slaughter seemed to be becoming a trademark of Aedan's.

More interesting rumours had reached his ears in the marketplace. Rumours of an elven vigilante - a woman who attacked the wealthy and the bigoted. He was intrigued.

More _disturbing_ were the much more quiet whispered rumours that something was wrong with the Queen. That she was pregnant was common knowledge - Zevran had known the news in Antiva. That she was ill was not so common, yet still, as someone to whom information was important, Zevran had also been informed. But he caught whispers in taverns amongst the nobility that were rapidly hushed whenever he approached. Whispers _against _the Prince Consort.

He sat thinking for an hour before he surged to his feet. There was only one way he would learn the truth of the rumours, and that was by going back into the city.

The landlady gave him a curious look as he slipped out of the room. "You're too late to be going into the city, ser," she said. "The gates close at sundown."

Zevran gave her a small smile. "I am aware," he said softly. Her eyes narrowed and Zevran noted the sudden tension across her shoulders. _Ah, _he thought.

Stealth was the first lesson one learned, as a Crow. He smiled to himself, well the _second _lesson, to be honest, but the first was one that required no skill but endurance. Stealth was the first skill he had learned that he took pride in - pride that was justified. He had surpassed his teacher. Yet his stealth was not enough to fool her.

In an alleyway near the Arl of Redcliffe's estate he heard the sharp snick of a weapon being drawn. Before he could react, a slender arm as strong as steel was wrapped around his shoulders, the point of a dagger pressed against his throat.

There were five separate ways he could free himself from the hold, only two of them which would result in his assailant's death. But he chose to stay still. _This _was an opportunity for information.

"Who are you?" her voice was roughened in an effort to disguise it, her breath sweet and hot on his cheek.

"It seems the coppers I paid to my new landlady did not cover discretion, I see," he replied smoothly. She tightened her grip.

"Do not play games with me," she said.

_"La mia donna_ I do not play games with my life," he said.

"Answer me."

"My name is Zevran," he said. He heard her gasp and her grip tightened again, but he didn't give her the opportunity to react to the information. Instead he twisted, gripping her wrist and spinning, putting just enough pressure on the nerve to make her gasp and drop the dagger she held then applying his strength to bring her to her knees. Despite her pain her free hand drew another dagger with startling swiftness, but Zevran knocked it out of her hand with a kick and grabbed the other wrist, pulling her bodily to him and holding both her arms behind her back.

She was panting with pain, but her eyes were fierce under her hood. Her pale lips were inches from his own and her small body hot against his chest.

"The White Lady, I presume," he said, allowing a smile to curve his lips, as he lifted her back to her feet. He did not loosen his grip.

She spat in his face. "You are a traitor to your kind. If you kill me another will take up my cause. Take that back to your employer, _Zevran Aranai."_

He laughed and pulled her a little closer. "So you have heard of me, then. 'Tis good to know my fame outlasted the Blight," she snorted. "Yet I believe you mistake my purpose here."

"Do I? You were sent by the Cousland to discover me. And I tell you it will do you no good. There are many who are willing to take my place should I fall. The White Lady will live on."

Zevran tutted, then released her. She fell back against the wall of the alley, rubbing her wrists, watching him from under the shadow of her hood. He was pleased she didn't simply attack him again - obviously she had the intelligence to know when she was outmatched. "I have no intention of killing you," he said softly.

"You were with the Cousland during the Blight," she spat.

He smiled crookedly and nodded. "Indeed I was," he said. "But a person can believe in ending the Blight without necessarily believing in the person who was responsible."

"Are you not in his employ?"

"I have not seen Aedan Cousland since the day he wedded Anora Mac Tir," Zevran said. "Nor would I wish to. He certainly does not control my actions. I am here on behalf of another."

"Who?"

Zevran laughed. "I do believe, _signorina, _that I have the upper hand here," he said. "Truly it is _you _who should be answering _my _questions."

She tilted her head and he caught a glimpse of snow white hair and the swirl of a tattoo on one cheek - not Dalish - he hadn't truly believed the woman could be one of the forest folk, considering she was willing to fight for the rights of the flat ears - but exotic and intriguing nonetheless.

"What do you wish to know?"

"What are your plans? What is your long term _strategy?"_

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No, indeed, _signorina _it is far from obvious. You strike randomly and opportunistically. You accomplish _nothing. _Your actions amount to little more than pointless thuggery, unless you can point to a long term _goal..."_

"You think we have no _goal? _This man _butchers _our people. He must be brought _down."_

"And you think to do this by knifing minor lordlings and robbing empty headed ladies in the marketplace?"

Her shoulders had started to shake. "You know _nothing."_

Zevran stepped forward and placed a finger under her chin, tipping her face up gently. "Then tell me," he said.

Her eyes flashed and she stepped back. "If you truly wish to help us," he thought he caught the hint of a smile in her voice, "_follow me." _

And she was gone.


	34. Chapter 34

Anders was too well known in Amaranthine to hope to do this completely unnoticed, but it wasn't too much of a problem. He _was _good friends with the Arl, after all. Still, it didn't do to be completely obvious when one was meeting with the Mages' Collective, simply because the Templars were always very, _very _interested in discovering members where they could. Although the Templar presence in Amaranthine was as light as Nathaniel could make it, the Chantry wouldn't stand for ignoring such an important city completely.

So in the interests of discretion Anders wore the simple warden uniform - tunic and trousers - rather than his more ostentatious robes and Spellfury was left (surrounded by glyphs and enchantments) in his room at the Crown and Lion. He felt naked without them, but Sigrun assured him he looked relatively normal. The glint in her eyes when she said _relatively _had him itching to tickle her with a lightning spell - but that would have spoiled the impression he was attempting to maintain and he settled for a stern look instead.

Amaranthine was their first stop on a long journey. Ostensibly they were recruiting - Sigrun and Anders were senior enough for that to be a reasonable excuse to travel the country. In reality, they were gathering information. Sigrun was meeting with the Dark Wolf - the two of them were... kindred spirits of a kind, and Francesca and Corbin were frequenting bars - getting to know Amaranthine as the two new wardens at the Keep.

At the same time they were trying to gauge the mood of the populace.

Nob Roberts was as unprepossessing a man as you could hope to meet - certainly not someone you would suspect of being a mage. Anders had had dealings with him before - on his first trip to Amaranthine when he was searching for his phylactery, before Namaya had assured him she had better information _and where had that ended up? Nowhere..._ He took apostasy very seriously - offered safe passage for mages out of Ferelden (although truly, unless you could hope to get all the way to Tevinter there weren't many places safer) and knew which Templars were open to monetary persuasion.

He also had contacts with apostates all over Ferelden, and Anders had asked him to send out feelers for possible recruits.

But the main thing Nob Roberts could give him was information. The mages collective were in some respects better informed than the Dark Wolf's network of spies, and had the added advantage of being nation-wide.

Anders knew from experience that paranoid mages were by necessity the best informed people in Thedas.

"So, you escaped in the end then, Anders," Nob said, ushering him into the back room of the small house.

"In a manner of speaking," he said, dusting off a chair and sinking into it. Pounce curled around his shoulders, disdaining any of the surfaces within reach. Anders couldn't blame him, truly. "Nob, don't you _clean _sometimes?"

The older man looked vaguely offended. "Sure I do," he said. "Sorry if I don't have servants like _some_ people here..."

"Fine, fine. I don't suppose you have anything to drink?"

Nob raised an eyebrow. "_That _I can help you with," he said, and turned to a shelf, busying himself with things that clinked.

"What's the news?"

Nob balanced two glasses in one hand and poured a generous measure of amber liquid into both of them before passing one to Anders. Anders sipped and made an appreciative sound - Nob's home brewery made the best... whatever it was he'd had the pleasure of drinking. "Magic," Nob would say, waggling his eyebrows.

"Elves are on the verge of rioting," Nob said, taking the seat opposite Anders and crossing his ankles together. "Everywhere, apparently. After the last slaughter at Denerim there's even talk amongst the alienages of an exodus back to the Dalish."

Anders snorted. "Oh, I can just see the Dalish welcoming _that _idea with open arms."

Nob waved an arm. "They're not serious. But can you imagine what would happen if they _did? _People really don't understand how much the city elves _do _here, or in Denerim, or Highever... mind you, Highever seems to be the only place where the elves _aren't _on the edge of rioting."

Anders raised an eyebrow. "That's interesting."

"Mages Collective contact there seems to think they might be frightened of Aedan's brother being just as ruthless as he is."

Anders let the pleasant hum of the alcohol soothe his nerves for a moment as he thought. "I grew up in Highever," he said. "Well... some of the time any way. The old Teyrn and his wife were good people."

"Really?" Nob looked incredulous.

"Yes, really. Very good people. From what I remember Fergus was similar. One of the reasons I was happy to join the wardens when I did."

"Aedan Cousland has his own definition of good," Nob said.

"Indeed he does," Anders said. "And it's pretty sodding different from the rest of ours, I can tell you. But Eleanor and Bryce Cousland had a reputation for compassion and decency. Perhaps Fergus takes after his parents where his brother didn't."

Nob shrugged. "You'd have to go there to get the full story, I suspect," he said. Anders chewed on his lip in thought. "Look," Nob continued, "the Collective doesn't hate Aedan Cousland - we tolerate him. He's done no worse by us than any other ruler, but when people start being suspicious of each other - when the country falls under hard times - it's harder to stay hidden."

Anders knew only too well how quick frightened and starving people were to call "mage" when things didn't go their way. "What about Anora? Do people feel the same about her?"

Nob shook his head. "Aedan gets the blame for all the bad things," he said. "Anora... well she's been out of the picture since she fell pregnant. There have been rumours..."

"What?"

"Rumours of blood magic in the palace," Nob said.

Anders clutched at the sides of his chair and leaned forward. "Now that's ridiculous," he said. Aedan wasn't that stupid. He didn't trust magic, had never trusted Anders or Velanna to be anything other than directed weapons or healers in combat - the only time Anders had ever been able to act independently during a battle had been with the Mother. The idea that the man would resort to blood magic for _anything..._

_...Avernus... _He wouldn't _rely _on blood magic. Of course not. But he would use it if necessary. If it would help him. If it could somehow delay the taint enough for Aedan to reach a ripe old age - or give him children.

Anora was pregnant - and according to warden lore, that was supposed to be difficult at best.

"What do they think he's _doing?" _

"They think he bewitched the queen into marrying him so he could steal the throne from Maric's bastard," Nob said.

Anders doubted it. He'd seen the way the queen had interacted with Aedan just before he'd been conscripted - there was definitely real affection there, and no hint of blood magic. And from what he understood of these things Aedan would have had to stay close to her to maintain the spell - his long stint in Amaranthine would have exposed it pretty quickly.

But it didn't mean he couldn't _use _this information...

Anders finished his drink with Nob, then had another (no point letting good liquor go to waste, after all) before heading back to the Crown and Lion to meet up with his fellow wardens. He found Sigrun deep in her cups with a few local lasses and raised his eyebrow in amusement. The dwarven girl had a way with people - her cheerfulness was infectious and it was amazing the information she could get out of people simply by being bubbly and inquisitive. She waved a tankard at him he walked in.

"'s Anders," she said to the girl next to her - a pretty blonde thing. "He's the one..."

"The one you've been telling us about?" she raked eyes over Anders form appreciatively and Anders gave Sigrun a _look._

"What have you been telling people, Sigrun?"

"Moira here... she wanted to know if the rumours were true..."

"What rumours?"

"The ones about grey warden... stamina..." another of the girls - this one a dark, relatively plain girl - older than the others - whose eyes nonetheless held a promising twinkle. Anders gave _her _a warm smile. It never hurt to be nice to the less good looking women, he'd found. Often they were much, _much _more interesting. She grinned back at him and turned from plain to downright _enticing. _

"Well, ladies, I can assure you they're absolutely true," he said, sliding down onto the bench next to the dark haired girl and giving Sigrun an eye roll.

"In every sense," Francesca's voice was dark and sultry - why had Anders never noticed that before? and _intimidating_. Anders found himself sitting straighter in his chair. It looked like fun was going to be postponed. The Antivan warden approached the table and stood, arms crossed over her chest and one eyebrow raised. Corbin was with her and the combination of her harsh gaze and the man's ravaged face sent the girls scattering remarkably quickly.

Sigrun giggled.

"How much of that have you had?" Anders asked the dwarf.

"Two pints," she pronounced distinctly.

"Oghren would be _ashamed," _he said. "Two pints shouldn't even have you buzzing."

She pouted. "Surfacer beer's all sparkly - goes to your head quicker."

Anders surreptitiously shot her with a rejuv spell and her smile faded. Corbin and Francesca slid into the booth.

"The consensus is that a move against Aedan would be supported by the common people," Corbin said, once they were certain of their privacy.

_"Sono d'accordo," _Francesca said. "But not by the aristocracy. Not without a suitable replacement."

Anders nodded. They would move on to Highever in the morning, then across to what remained of West Hill. Nathaniel didn't want them traveling too far afield but Anders got the feeling that he already knew what the result of their little fact finding mission would be. The people didn't care enough about the plight of the elves, and there was no doubt Aedan's rule was efficient in most regards. A rebellion... well, involving the wardens in a rebellion hadn't ended well the first time they tried it.

But perhaps there was another way.


	35. Chapter 35

He looked for her, after they'd finished planning their route, but couldn't find her anywhere. Frustrated and hungry, he made his way to the kitchens, where he found the dwarf girl - Sigrun, and the mage, Anders, eating and chatting companionably. Alistair sat a few seats away from them at the big table and ate his meal - a stew that was obviously on the boil for wardens at all times but surprisingly good nonetheless. The mage waved a fork in his direction, his mouth full, obviously inviting him to join them. Alistair blushed, but moved closer.

"So you're a warden?" Sigrun said. Her cheery tone was at complete odds to her fierce tattoos. She was nothing like Kardol and the other legion members Alistair had met in the deep roads.

"I... was a warden, yes."

"Come on, we know it's not something you can exactly give up," Anders said. "How is it you're alive? I thought our esteemed former Commander was the only Ferelden warden who survived Ostagar."

Alistair bit his lip. If news of his survival reached Aedan he could count on every man he had at his disposal being dispatched to chase him down. "I was stationed in the Free Marches," he said vaguely. "Before the Blight."

"Oh, so that's where Nathaniel met you?" Alistair nodded, grateful to have the blanks filled in by the man.

"So what's with the baby then?" Sigrun said. "Why is it calling us all?"

"And who are your lady friends?" The mage added, the light of _extreme _interest glinting in his hazel eyes.

"The baby... it's complicated.." Alistair pushed his plate away. "And truly... not my story to tell." _Not all of it. _"Nathaniel knows the details. I don't doubt he'll tell you them if you need to know."

The dwarf and the mage exchanged a look, then Anders shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said. "I'll just have to worm it out of our Commander later."

"Bet you ten silvers I get it out of him first!" Sigrun said.

"Not fair - you just have to bat your eyelids and..."

Alistair's mind wandered away as their friendly banter washed over him. The banter shared by comrades in arms. Being a warden again - maybe that wouldn't be so bad. With people around him he could trust and who trusted him in return. Nathaniel was a good man - nothing like Duncan, of course, but certainly someone worthy of command. He could see himself serving here.

If it weren't for Ceindrech.

Something in the conversation alerted him and he looked up sharply to see the mage examining him with a critical and all-too-observant eye.

"You know, if you shaved off that beard you'd be a dead ringer for King Maric," he said, smirking slightly.

"Oh _you _can talk, nose boy," the dwarf said, elbowing him in the ribs.

Alistair picked it as a _very good _time to leave at that point.

He made it to the room he'd been assigned, but he hesitated at the door, wondering. Leliana had _said _there'd be time for... so where was she? Perhaps she'd just said that to make him leave? A thousand reasons for _not _wanting to fulfill that promise marched through his head as he pushed the door open and he'd convinced himself that their kiss on the battlements had been nothing more than a mistake on both their parts when he felt soft hands encircle his waist and a breath of warm air on his neck.

"You certainly took your time getting here."

He twisted in her light grasp until he was facing her, laughing breathlessly, then captured her face in his hands and leaned his forehead on hers. "I was looking for you," he said. "I didn't think.."

She smiled up at him. "To look for me here? Shame on you, Alistair, if you think a simple thing like a locked door could keep me away."

He let a thumb trail over her bottom lip and was delighted when she closed her eyes and leaned into his hand. There was nothing of desperation in it this time, when he leaned forward to touch his lips to hers, and he found the time to appreciate the gentle feel of her tongue and mouth for a moment before _something _overcame him and he found his heart hammering at his ribs and his arms pulling her closer - as close as he could - only just realising she wasn't dressed in her leathers but a soft shirt and trousers and the heat of her skin underneath them made his head spin.

She gently pushed him backwards towards the bed and he willingly let her take the lead. Her hands skillfully divested him of his shirt and trousers and he closed his eyes as she trailed her fingers over his chest. "Leliana..." he said. "I ah..." her fingers found the laces on his breeches and his capacity for speech momentarily left him.

"Alistair, you do not need to make excuses for yourself," she was smiling as she worked. "Just tell me if you feel uncomfortable.."

_"Uncomfortable?" _he laughed. "That's pretty much how I _always _feel..."

She stopped and looked up at him, her eyes suddenly full of concern. He bit his lip and she lifted a hand to his face, smoothing creases of worry away from his forehead and leaning up to kiss his cheek. "We shall have to change that," she said then, an her lips curved in a smile.

She took a step back and pulled her shirt over her head. She wore no breastband, and Alistair caught his breath as her trousers followed. The curves of her generous breasts and hips sent his mouth completely dry and his groin _uncomfortably _tight. He wanted her - _oh _how he _wanted.._but he had no idea what he was supposed to do and he clenched and unclenched his fists in an anguish of embarrassment and desire.

She stepped forward, then, and wrapped her arms around his chest, pressing her breasts into him, twisting sensuously against his hardness. He bucked his hips and groaned into her shoulder, opening his mouth to taste her skin and pulling her into his arms. She arched her neck and he continued to kiss and lick as he let his hands wander down to the splay of her hips - feeling the hardness of well-used muscle as well as the intoxicating smoothness of skin.

"Alistair..." she breathed his name into his ear and gently eased him down onto the mattress. A second of flashback plagued him, then, and he blinked to see a different woman entirely crouched over him, but the image was dispelled when Leliana, instead of claiming him in a few swift movements, stretched out beside him, her hand lingering on his stomach and her eyes roaming over his form. He felt heat rush to his face and she smiled again, prodding him in the stomach with a finger.

"Oof," he grunted, then laughed and rolled over onto her. She smiled back up at him and he felt his worries of earlier wilting under the force of that blue gaze. "You are so beautiful," he breathed.

"So are you," she said, then twisted under him and suddenly it was all he could do not to take her then and there.

"Show me," he said then. "Show me what you want me to do."

She did.

* * *

It was almost like old times. Except they were woken in the night, not by dawkspawn, but by Ceindrech crying. The unspoken agreement was that Morrigan didn't take a night watch - she was getting little enough sleep as it was (although Alistair suspected she wasn't above using the odd sleeping spell on the baby when things got too bad). Surprisingly, Oghren was the best at babysitting amongst them, although it took a lot of convincing for Morrigan to allow the dwarf within ten feet of the child. As it was, he wasn't allowed anywhere near her until Morrigan had used a rejuvenation spell on him.

"Stupid woman - I'm not about to handle a baby drunk - Felsi would've killed me long ago if I'd tried."

"You mean she hasn't tried to kill you already?" Alistair asked. The dwarf was funnily enough a reminder of happier times for Alistair - before he'd been forced to acknowledge his birthright. Oghren had even spoken up for him at the Landsmeet - not that anyone would listen to an ex-warrior caste dwarf.

"Role playing, pike-twirler. You might want to try it with your bard - she'd probably enjoy it."

Alistair felt the heat in his face, but managed a smile. The jibes didn't hurt as much as they used to.

When Nathaniel had offered to let Oghren join them Alistair had been dubious at first, but as one of the most senior wardens left in Ferelden he was almost as efficient as Alistair as sensing darkspawn. He'd thought at first Nathaniel was going to offer him Anders, but the blond mage seemed to have other things to do and Alistair found it something of a relief considering his obvious attraction to Leliana. But the dwarf had turned out to be good company. He took first watch and the dwarf often stuck around when Alistair relieved him to talk and reflect.

"Why did you join the wardens, Oghren?" Alistair asked him one night when they a couple of weeks on the road.

Oghren shrugged. "The army wasn't the same," he said simply. "I'm a surfacer now, but the darkspawn are still the threat we care about and the army doesn't do darkspawn. Not any more. And after spending a bit of time with Fergus Cousland I thought Aedan might be good company."

Alistair poked the fire with a stick and chuckled darkly. "Fergus isn't like his brother then?"

"About as alike as a nug and a bereskarn," Oghren snorted. "Although don't ask me which is which. From what Fergus said Aedan has a lot of nug about him. Or at least he did when he was younger."

"You didn't see much of what Aedan did during the Blight," Alistair said bitterly.

"He set Orzammar to rights, that's all I cared about."

Alistair shook his head. "I wouldn't have put Bhelen in charge," he said. "The man was a dishonorable snake."

"'Course he was. But that's Orzammar for you."

"He killed Branka," Alistair pointed out.

"She was sodding insane, Alistair."

"True."

Oghren heaved a big sigh. "Truth? I became a warden because I felt sodding useless. Felsi had the baby, and her work, and I had what? An axe I could use to chop the knees off Ferelden's non-existent enemies. No fighting, less drinking, no wenching. At least with the wardens the fights never end."

Alistair looked towards Morrigan's tent, where the soft cries of the baby could be heard suddenly. He wanted to go and help, but knew if he even attempted to approach he'd be met with scorn and dismissal. "How could you leave them?" he said.

Oghren's face clouded in sudden pain. "They didn't need me."

"Are you certain?"

"Yup."

Alistair raised an eyebrow at him, but the dwarf got up and left the fireside.

Their progress was slower than he would have liked, especially with the threat of darkspawn hovering over them. They were attacked every few days - always small groups - never more than they could deal with. Morrigan had brewed more of the potion she'd used on Alistair and Aedan at the beginning of the Blight - one of the secrets she'd managed to extract from her mother's grimoire before it was lost - and so the only thing that was attracting them was Ceindrech's call.

It was more than a month before they reached ground that was more familiar to Alistair than any in the country - burned into his memory by painful memories.

The outskirts of Ostagar.


	36. Chapter 36

She was so pale. So very, very pale. Aedan had only really seen that kind of pallor on someone with battle wounds - it seemed utterly wrong that his wife could look so ill and yet technically not be dying.

"I'm sorry, your majesty," the healer was saying, wringing his hands. Aedan felt like growling at the man. He had sent to Nathaniel to have Anders come - the former apostate for all he grated across every single nerve in Aedan's body, was twice the healer this man from the Tower was. But Nathaniel had sent an apologetic note back - Anders was traveling Ferelden looking for apostates to recruit into the wardens. Aedan couldn't believe the new Commander thought Anders could be trusted on such an errand, but then he guessed Nathaniel had gotten to know the man better than Aedan had. His spy at the Keep had informed him there were rumours the two men were lovers - they certainly spent enough time in each other's company. Aedan hadn't pegged Nate as someone who swung that way, but he'd been wrong about such things before.

"I can only reassure you," the fool man continued. "She will survive - the babe is healthy and strong and almost certainly will carry to term, but she is weak from the constant vomiting and dehydrated. She must rest and drink constantly."

Anora stirred in her sleep and Aedan's heart clenched. How could a _pregnancy _do this to a woman? He wondered if it had something to do with the taint in his blood. He dismissed the mage and sat in the chair near his wife's bed, lifting her hand and holding it in his. The bloated swelling of her stomach seemed almost obscene to him, yet it carried his legacy.

_Avernus _might be able to help. If for some reason the taint in his blood had caused her illness - perhaps the old blood mage could help him? She had only two months left, however, and any trip to Soldier's Peak would consume at least one of those months. He would send a messenger to bring the old man back to the Palace, however.

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the fingers, wondering that she could have come to mean so much to him in so short a time. Then he stood, feeling foolish, and left the room.

* * *

"There haven't been any attacks since the failed one on the Arl of Denerim," Carroll was saying. "We figure she got a fright - or perhaps a wound, and she's lying low until she's recovered."

"There's no chance she was killed?"

Carroll shrugged. "We can hope," he said. "But I don't like not having a body to confirm it. If she disappears completely without explanation we might do well to plant a corpse and tell people she's been confirmed dead..."

Aedan shook his head firmly. "No," he said. "If it turns out she _isn't _dead it would be even worse for us - having an enemy rise from the grave.."

Carroll pursed his lips. "I see what you mean," he said.

Aedan ran a finger through his hair, loose from its braid lately - sometimes there just wasn't the time these days. "Have you anything else to report?" Carroll shifted uncomfortably and Aedan fixed him with a hard gaze. "What is it, man?"

"I.. ah.. I..."

"Out with it."

"There have been rumours, your majesty. About the Queen."

Aedan sat back in his chair and raised an eyebrow. "Rumours?"

"Of blood magic, your highness."

Aedan almost laughed. That this morning he had been considering calling on the only practitioner of blood magic he knew seemed too ironic. "Specifics, please," he said instead.

Carroll took a deep breath. "They say you forced her into marriage. That you used blood magic to control her and somehow the baby is contaminated by it. They say that she's not ill at all, just being kept quiet so she doesn't speak out against you. Or that she's being _made _ill by you. They say you're secretly a malificar yourself..."

Aedan rolled his eyes. "Maker's breath," he muttered. "Who is _starting _all these rumours?" he got to his feet. Anora was in no condition to show herself to the public at present - any attempt to do so would only serve to confirm the rumours. But something _would _have to be done. He nodded to Carroll. "Thank you for letting me know," he said. "Tell the servant to call Eamon to me on your way out."

Carroll bowed deeply and left. Aedan pinched the bridge of his nose - Eamon would probably have some idea of what to do to fix this but truly he could have done without _extra _troubles.

"You sent for me," Eamon entered slowly and Aedan suddenly realised that the man was showing his age. With his wife dead and his son sent to the Tower he supposed the only thing he had left to him was his position, and Aedan would freely admit that he didn't allow the man much time to rest.

"We have problems, Eamon," Aedan said, motioning for him to sit. "It seems the populace are about to accuse me of using blood magic to assume the throne."

The old man's eyebrow shot up. "Truly? That surprises me. Most know that you avoided mages during the blight."

"Perhaps they think I didn't need them, being malificar myself."

Eamon snorted. It was strangely reassuring to know that the old man didn't think he was the type to use blood magic. Even if he was completely wrong. "The best way to dispel those doubts would be to have Anora speak for you," Eamon said.

"In her current state I fear that would do us more harm than good," Aedan said.

"She is not well then?"

"The healers say she _will _be fine, once the baby is born. But at present, no, she's in no condition to make public appearances. Hence some of the difficulty."

"I see."

"I was wondering if we could somehow get some Chantry support," Aedan continued. "The Revered Mother could issue some sort of statement..."

"That's a good idea," Eamon said. "If we offer her a large enough tithe she should be more than willing to issue a statement declaring your innocence. That would be enough to convince the common folk, at least."

"And the nobility know better than to accuse me of something I am innocent of," Aedan said.

Eamon smiled, a grim expression, but one that made Aedan feel strangely satisfied. He hadn't thought he wanted the respect of the man and had never looked for it, but to have it meant more to him than he would have thought. "I shall arrange it," Eamon said, getting to his feet.

"You have my thanks, Eamon," Aedan said.

Once he was alone again in his office Aedan stood and moved to the window. He would consult with Avernus when he reached Denerim - perhaps there was a way for Anora to avoid her current illness with any subsequent pregnancies. Perhaps the warden research he had been conducting had offered a solution to the other problem - the one he hoped he would never have to share with his wife and child.

Perhaps the White Lady truly had been killed, and there would be no more of her attacks.

Perhaps.


	37. Chapter 37

Summer was heading towards autumn and there was a definite chill in the air around Vigil's Keep as Nathaniel made his way down to the room he'd prepared for Avernus. Fitting, that the old man should work in the old Avvar crypt where Aedan and he had defeated the spirits his family had left alone for centuries. Avernus didn't appear to mind that there were no windows, that the scent of death still hung in the air. It was musty, but spacious, and no other wardens ever ventured there. No one but Nathaniel had a key to this part of the cellar, and when other wardens asked what was kept there, he would murmur something about a family crypt and enquiries would end.

He had a crate of supplies, which contained herbs as well as food and drink. The old man ate like a bird, however, and Nathaniel often had to take back nearly as much as he brought. If he didn't remind him, Nathaniel suspected Avernus would not bother to eat.

Their discussions were getting more and more interesting. Nathaniel found he was actually beginning to enjoy the old man's company. Quite apart from the fact that Avernus had an extremely agile mind, it was fascinating to get a first hand perspective on the history of the Wardens. Sophia Dryden had never been painted particularly favourably by those who wrote histories of Ferelden, but from the way Avernus described her, Nathaniel suspected the old mage had more than just respect for the woman.

The man was morally repugnant, though. Nathaniel couldn't hear details of his research without his hands twitching towards his daggers. But he seemed happy enough, as long as his requests for materials were met. He still grumbled about not having live subjects or warden blood to work with, but apart from that he was perfectly content.

"I have made a new batch of the potion your former Commander drank," Avernus said this time, pointing at a full vial on one of the many benches littered around the old crypt. Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. "It is not as powerful as that which I gave to your Antivan warden, but it should boost your abilities and give you access to some others, should you choose to use it."

"How do I know it won't kill me?" Nathaniel said.

"Aedan Cousland still lives, last I heard."

Nathaniel picked up the vial and turned it over in his hands. The liquid inside was a sickly green colour, not at all tempting to his palate. "He drank this?"

"After interrogating me on its properties and forcing me to drink a little first, yes."

_"You've _drunk this?"

"Of course. I am not so stupid as to deny myself the fruits of my own labour."

"Did you drink the potion you gave to Francesca?"

Avernus' eyes narrowed. "I did not," he said. "That was not perfected."

Nathaniel pursed his lips. "I don't suppose you'll be offended if I ask you to do the same as Aedan did."

"I would be disappointed if you didn't," Avernus chuckled. "I can make enough of that for all your wardens, should you wish it. I used my own blood to make it, though, so it will take me some time." He flashed his brown teeth in a humourless grin. "Unless you wish to donate some of your own?"

Nathaniel put the vial firmly down on the table and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'll pass," he said. "On both counts, thank you. Although if you feel the need to make more, please do. When Anders gets back I'll let him examine it."

Avernus rolled his eyes, his contempt for the blond mage knew no bounds and Nathaniel always found it amusing. The old man watched Nathaniel for a moment with a gleam in his eyes. "Has the Antivan woman shown any strange signs?" he asked after a moment. Nathaniel stiffened with anger.

"Aside from sleeplessness, no," he said shortly.

The mage looked smugly pleased and Nathaniel was reminded of exactly _why _Anders was itching to kill the man so badly. Avernus turned his head back to his books and licked his finger before turning a page, reaching for a quill. "Interesting. I would have thought she would be dead by now..."

Nathaniel clenched his fists, but there was no point in hurting the man. He truly didn't understand why he was offensive.

"Let me know if you wish me to make more of the potion," Avernus said, his tone clearly dismissive. Nathaniel shook his head and turned to leave.

Back in the basement he was met by one of the wardens on gate duty. "Commander, there's something you need to see," the man - a fellow archer named Martin - said.

"What is it?''

"At the entrance to the deep roads, Ser. You'd better come with us. I've sent for Tabitha - she's pretty beat up..."

"She?"

"It's a warden, ser."

Velanna looked very, very different to how she had looked eight months ago. There was a nasty scar along one side of her face - her blond hair had been cut short, messily, as though with a dagger. She wore regular peasant clothes rather than the deep cut robes he remembered and her hands, when she finally came around, shook with stress and hunger and desperation.

Nathaniel's heart ached as he looked at the woman he'd so admired when she'd first arrived at the keep. Her eyes were just as hard, if not more so, than they had been then. He wondered how she'd survived - why she had _returned _- she'd never professed any loyalty for the wardens and to be truthful Nathaniel had doubted Aedan's wisdom in recruiting her. Even now, he doubted her return had anything to do with the order.

When she regained consciousness he was by her bedside, by chance, having stopped in on his way to his office. "Nathaniel," she said, tersely, when her eyes opened. He couldn't help but smile at the tone of her voice.

"Velanna. It is good to see you again." She snorted. "What brings you back? We all assumed you were dead."

"Not dead. I went to look for my sister." He nodded, and Velanna turned her head to the side.

"I assume you found her."

The tears that welled in her eyes were genuine, and Nathaniel itched to capture one on his finger. Shocked at the intensity of his desire, he clasped his hands in his lap. "She died," Velanna said then, shortly, and he could _see _her push the emotion away as she spoke. "With the architect died the knowledge of how he stopped the progression of the taint. The Commander took all the architect's research - I couldn't replicate it. And Seranni... " the elf's voice cracked. "Seranni knew _nothing..."_

"I'm sorry, Velanna."

She blinked, and her lip trembled. "Thank you," she said. "You... none of you have any reason to welcome me back. I... didn't care about being a warden. I cared about being able to sense the darkspawn. Now.. I truly don't know what I care about."

"If you wish you could return to your clan," Nathaniel said. "I will have no wardens here who do not wish to fight the darkspawn."

Her lips pressed together. "My clan will not welcome me, Nathaniel."

"Then you are welcome back with us," he said, getting to his feet, forcing himself not to voice the words that wanted to be spoken.

He made it back to his office, realising as he did how much Velanna's presence was affecting him. He had sent them all away - Anders, Sigrun, Oghren... Alistair and Leliana... - he hadn't realised how alone he felt. Even with Garavel and Varel present, the keep had felt far too empty for the past week. Velanna's presence reassured him.

Back in his office - the sun just reaching its zenith, he leaned against the window sill, looking out over the courtyard of what had been his family home, his thoughts refusing to settle.

Before his father had sent him to the Free Marches - before he'd been accustomed to being the reason for his disappointment, he had dreamed of being in the position he was now. Arl of Amaranthine - married, perhaps. With children. It was what he had been bred for. When Aedan had offered him Command he had almost laughed in the man's face - the irony had been so perfect, that the one thing his father thought he could deny Nathaniel would be handed to him in such a way.

Yet in the past weeks, without his fellow wardens around him, he had begun to feel the shadow of his father more and more. More than once, he had stopped himself from sending to Amaranthine for Delilah to come, if only to distract him from his thoughts. Yet the Keep was no place for a young woman. The ever present threat of darkspawn and the taint lent an air of gloom to the place that, whilst not as oppressive as that of his father had been, was not something Nathaniel wanted his sister or his nephew to experience.

He had the painting of his mother removed, all trace of Rendon Howe's ostentatious and often vulgar tastes were gone, but he could still hear the man's voice, as he turned a familiar corner, saw an old servant, felt the sting of heat in his cheeks from some remark remembered. That Aedan Cousland had been the one to kill him still rankled in his heart. The man had stolen the one thing he ever wanted from his father.

The chance to explain. The opportunity to ask, and be asked, that ever more complex of questions -

_Why?_


	38. Chapter 38

He had to push himself to keep up with her. It was exhilarating, in a way, but so, so painful - the only other person with skills even approaching hers had been Rinna.

Over the rooftops of Denerim, through alleyways, even onto the city walls at one stage (and didn't the city guard need to improve their powers of observation - Zevran was ashamed of Aedan, the man surely knew better!) never once letting him get close enough to catch her. In the end he suspected it was his wealth that saved him. For all she was well trained, determined and skilled, he was those - _and_ well fed and healthy - Crow discipline again. A master would never let an apprentice work under the conditions most elves had to suffer in the alienage, no matter what their race. Zevran was completely healthy (thanks to his frequent contact with healer mages) and well nourished, and as such his stamina was far, far greater than the elven girls'.

When she stumbled and nearly fell, from a rooftop near the Cousland family estate, Zevran was fast enough to catch her, stop her from killing herself. Although she fought him, silently, trying to twist out of his grasp, she simply didn't have the strength, and in the end she went limp. Her hood fell back from her face and he could see now, the white hair, cut short and wild around her heart-shaped face, the clear, light brown eyes flecked with green, the gentle swirls of her tattoo on her delicate cheek. Pale lips parted as she gasped for breath.

"You win," she said finally, once her breath had returned. He allowed himself a smile.

"So, white lady," he said. "Shall we talk?"

The tavern was suitably shabby, near the docks where people looked the other way if elves were out of the alienage after curfew. Zevran and his companion kept their hoods up, in any case, and Zevran took the opportunity to order them both food. As he watched the girl wolf down the simple stew he realised his earlier assessment was right - she was weak from hunger and exhaustion and it was only a matter of time before the city guard would have taken her down, despite her skill.

"So, my dear," he said, once she paused in her mouthfuls long enough to reply. "I am interested in your story."

"I bet you are," she said roughly, pushing her bowl out of the way and leaning back in the booth.

"What compels a young woman to take up arms against a monarch?"

Her mouth took on a sneer and she looked away. "What does it matter why I do what I do?" she said. "I fulfill a need of my people. We deserve justice - I give it, wherever I can." His lips twitched in a smile. She caught his expression and drew in a breath full of anger. "You never lived in an alienage, that much is obvious."

He spread his hands. "No indeed, _dolce ragazza. _I grew up in a whorehouse - before I was sold into slavery that is. I have no idea what life in an alienage is like."

She swallowed, looking suddenly guilty and he let himself chuckle. She was so very young. He caught himself wondering exactly how young and as such almost lost the beginning of her answer.

"I was supposed to be married," she said. "Just before the Blight. Vaughn Kendalls - the Arl of Denerim - well, he wasn't the Arl then but..." she bit her lip. "He decided to... amuse himself with some alienage women - he took me - as well as my cousin and several others - to _entertain_ him at a party he was holding."

Zevran raised an eyebrow. This sort of behaviour was not unheard of - although it was the first he'd known of it in Ferelden. "And?"

She showed her teeth. "I killed his guards and managed to escape with the help of my other cousin. But he kept the others for four days. _Four days. _The man who was supposed to be my husband... he was killed trying to rescue us. My cousin was imprisoned for more than a year - forgotten in the bowls of the Arl of Denerim's estate..."

"Wait, - your cousin - red hair? Large eyes?"

"Soris. Yes."

"Ah - I believe I was the one who released him," he said. "While my warden friend was distracted by Arl Howe."

Her eyes flashed as she looked at him, and he caught a hint of gratitude in her expression. "You have my thanks for that, then," she said.

"While this certainly explains some of your motives, it does not explain where you learned your considerable skills..."

"My mother," she said shortly. "She trained me."

"Indeed?"

"And then she was killed. By shems. Like the Arl of Denerim."

Zevran leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. "So, you take up the cause of the downtrodden, yes? You kill murderers and rapists - so long as they are human - and you speak treason against the throne in an effort to bring down Aedan Cousland."

"Yes," her tone was defensive. "Yet you tell me I am a fool. My name is spoken in every tavern - on ever corner, by shems and elves alike, yet you say I know _nothing..."_

He tutted. _"Veramente_, I did not mean to insult you..."

A delicate white eyebrow was raised. "Oh?"

He shrugged and smiled. "Well, perhaps I did. But I am suitably impressed with what you have managed to achieve with so little training. I suggest, however, that you suspend your activities for the time being."

"Why?"

He lunged forward and grabbed her wrist, pulling her forward across the table. She flinched, but was not strong enough to break free. "Because I can do this, _la mia bellezza bianco. _You are tired, and you need proper food. You have been doing this every night, I guess. For weeks. The city guard, no matter how incompetent, will catch you just as I did this evening."

She snorted in disbelief. "They could never keep up with me," she said.

"Overconfidence kills more fools than any assassin," he said harshly. "You have set such things in motion, it would be a true pity for you to fall before you see their conclusion." She was reluctant, he could see that, but his words were reaching her. He had hope. "There are rumours," he continued. "Rumours brewing in this city which we can use to our advantage." He allowed her to twist her arm free and she sat back, glaring at him and rubbing her wrist.

"Rumours?"

"You fight with your daggers, yes? I tell you that of them all - words are the more powerful weapon. Aedan Cousland is in far more danger from words and ideas than he is from violence. You and I, _bellezza bianco_,can turn this city so completely against him that when the time comes he will step down from the throne _willingly._"

"If I disappear now, the people will lose faith in me," she said. "I _must _continue..."

He smiled. "Oh, I do not believe so," he said. "We shall have to orchestrate your appearances a little more carefully, that is all. And a short absence will give us time to manipulate the people even more. Trust me on this."

Her eyes narrowed. "You ask a lot of trust," she said. "I'm still not entirely sure you're not working for the Cousland."

Zevran hissed. "I do not work for the man," he said. "I have another employer."

_"Who? _The Crows? Do they wish him removed?"

Zev nearly gasped. Rinna's face - her ravaged voice, the hatred in her green eyes - visions flashed through his mind with an intensity that _hurt_. The Crows. For a brief time he had thought he owned them. For a brief time he had been the man he had always thought he would be - from the moment the master came to take him from the brothel.

He forced his voice level. "I no longer work for the Crows," he said. Her eyes went shrewd and he knew he hadn't completely managed to hide his reaction from her.

"The Wardens then? I can't imagine they're happy about Aedan Cousland's current position. Aren't they supposed to be divorced from politics?"

"Let us just say that there are more people than just Denerim elves who have a problem with Aedan Cousland," Zevran said.

She folded her arms across her chest and eyed him. "Trust needs to be earned," she said finally. "Come on a job with me. Help me do something that needs to be done. Then I'll do as you ask."

He sighed. "If it would please you. What do you wish? A robbery? Some vigilantism?"

Her teeth flashed white under her hood. "Why don't we take advantage of _your_ training, master Crow?" she said.

"_My _training?"

"How about a murder?"


	39. Chapter 39

They were just outside Highever when he began to suspect something was wrong. Francesca was taking longer and longer watches - refusing to wake the next watcher if she was put on watch first, waking early for her watch if she was put on last. Once, in the witching hours before dawn, she came to relieve him pale and sweaty, as though she had been fighting rather than sleeping.

She refused to let him examine her.

The boiling rage - against Avernus - against _Aedan _and even to some extent against Nathaniel - seething inside him did little to make his duties in Highever easier. It didn't help that he _knew _his family was still here, that he really, _really _should visit them, at least let them know he was still alive. But he was held back by guilt. He told himself he had other things to do - that he would see them when he was finished, but part of him knew he never would. It had been too long. Better they think he was dead.

The day went smoothly, he made contact with the mages' collective liaison - Sigrun and Francesca scouted for recruits. Corbin spoke to the city guard. Anders managed to avoid _that street _and the mages collective liaison didn't notice his resemblance to the town's resident apostate (it was lucky he was fair where his brother was dark) so all was well when he started on his way back to the inn.

The sun was setting and he was following a particular route through back streets he knew better than he knew the apprentice quarters at the Tower, when he felt the tingle on the back of his neck that told him he was being followed.

His first thought was _Templar, _but that was stupid. He was alone, dressed rather significantly in his warden uniform (not robes, not for this journey) and he had left his staff in their communal gear. He was long practiced at repressing the link to the fade that broadcast to Templars what he was, and any Templar worth their salt wouldn't wait to smite him if they suspected him of apostasy. So he stopped in the street and looked _up, _silently thanking Sigrun and Nate for their lessons on stealth.

Sure enough, a figure was outlined against the setting sun. It seemed to realise it was seen, because Anders made out what looked like a shrug, before a lithe body jumped to the ground. "You're the warden mage?" the woman said. She was short and red-haired and looked very much like she could use the daggers sheathed at her waist well enough to stop him from casting even the fastest spell in his repertoire.

"Who wants to know?"

"Teyrn Cousland would like to speak with you."

Anders swallowed.

He'd been to the castle once before, but that was when the old Teyrn was in residence. It was just as big as he remembered. The red-haired woman escorted him to the audience chamber and then disappeared. She hadn't said another word, once he'd agreed to accompany her.

Fergus Cousland was sitting in the Cousland... _throne _was really the only word for it, ramrod straight and imposing as he spoke with another man who was obviously the head of his guard. Anders felt like an apprentice again, brought to the First Enchanter to be chastised, but when the Teyrn turned his blue eyes on him they were unlike his brother's - warm rather than ice cold, and intelligent without being intimidating.

"Anders, I presume?" Fergus said.

"Yes, my lord," Anders replied. "Ah... you're not planning on turning me over to the Templars are you? Or..."

Fergus laughed, an easy sound again completely unlike his brother's. "I have no plans to do so, no," he said. "And in any case, you're a warden mage, aren't you? Although I notice you're taking pains to disguise the mage part at least."

Anders shrugged. "It never pays to advertise you're a mage," he said. "Is there something you need? Do you have a message from... your brother?" Anders couldn't quite keep the feeling out of his voice at the mention of Aedan, and he noticed Fergus' expression harden.

"No, I have no message from Aedan. Although... it's about him that I wanted to talk to you."

Anders cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow. "Truly?" he said. "How interesting."

The Teyrn got to his feet. "Walk with me, Anders," he said. The guard at his side started to protest, but Fergus held up a hand and the man fell silent. Anders, more and more curious, fell into step next to the man and they walked out onto the battlements of Castle Cousland.

Once they were up on the walls, far above the town and alone, Fergus leaned forward and looked down. Anders, too, looked out over the town he had - for a short time - called home.

"Your people have been very discreet," Fergus said. "But I know what you're up to."

Anders was careful not to start, but turned to Fergus and cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

Fergus gave a half grin. "You probably would have got away with it, if you hadn't started in Denerim. The Dark Wolf is a friend of mine. And I have.. ties with the mages collective."

"Ties?"

"There's an apostate healer in Highever. I let him operate without the problem of the Templars. He gives me information."

Anders pursed his lips. He knew who that healer was.

"So," he said then. "Are you going to arrest me?"

"On the contrary," Fergus said. "I want to help you."

* * *

He walked back to the inn in a thoughtful frame of mind. They had gained an ally, and an ally with considerable resources at his command, but he couldn't help but feel uneasy. And there was still the problem of Francesca.

They took rooms at the Peacock and Grouse, an inn that held a few pleasant memories for Anders (he wondered where Portia was these days). He expected Sigrun and Francesca to share, but not entirely to his surprise Francesca insisted on a separate room. Sigrun, cheerful as always, shrugged - especially since the Antivan was paying for it out of her own money rather than from the communal purse given to them by Nathaniel before they left.

After a debrief that was necessarily long, considering Anders meeting with the Teyrn, Anders refused Sigrun's invitation to drink, as did Corbin, and the two of them retired upstairs to their room. Francesca stayed with the duster dwarf - something else she hadn't done before, and Anders suspicions reached breaking point.

"What are you doing?" Corbin asked him, when he dumped his bag in their room and turned to leave. "Changed your mind about having a drink? That dwarf girl probably needs some more supervision..."

"Sigrun'll be fine," Anders said shortly. "It's not her I'm worried about."

The scarred soldier raised his remaining eyebrow, but nodded shortly. "Should I expect you back?" he said.

Anders thought for a second, then shrugged. "Possibly. Maybe. I really don't know," he grimaced. "I hope so."

Corbin's one blue eye held a lot of understanding and Anders took a moment to wonder exactly what his full story was. But only a moment. He had other things to do.

The locks on the inn's rooms were laughable and took a couple of seconds to pick. He relocked the door behind him and settled in the tiny chair of Francesca's room to wait.

He must have dozed off a few times, waiting for her. The third time he woke he wondered if she'd even bother to come to her room - perhaps she was planning on drinking herself to death down there. He stood, thinking to go and drag her up here if he needed to, but as he did so he heard the lock snick and saw the door open.

She froze, seeing him there. Her auburn hair was loose around her muscled shoulders, her dark shadows of pain, but she managed a chuckle.

For some reason, that sound brought tears to his eyes.

_"Guidata. _Why am I surprised?"

"You shouldn't be, truly," he said. "How long did you think you could hide it from me?"

She leaned against the doorframe and sighed. "I had hoped to get back to the Vigil before you found out," she said. "But..."

"It's getting worse," he said, clenching his teeth. "I can see that."

She shrugged. "We all know what to expect. The older wardens - they tell us. When you reach forty, they take you aside." Her voice was slurring slightly. He wondered how much she'd had, wondered if it was helping or making things worse. His hands twitched.

"Francesca..." she stepped forward suddenly, and took his hands in hers.

"Shh," she said. "You could not have known, what would happen. You are _not _to blame."

He almost growled at her, his grip on her hands tightening fiercely. "I _am..."_

She pulled him down before he knew what was happening, pressing her lips to his gently, softly. Her breath was sweet with drink and he knew - _knew_ she was doing this to shut him up, get him gone, but he suddenly didn't give a damn and he wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to him, turning the kiss from something chaste and calm to something violent and primal. He expected her to shove him away, curse, possibly even let loose a smite, but she didn't. Instead her arms came up around his and she gasped into his mouth, using her considerable strength to pull him even closer as their mouths devoured each other.

Part of his brain was telling him to stop, telling him she was drunk, in the grip of her Calling, but another part understood precisely what it was she needed, what _he _needed, and he pulled at her shirt, even as she fumbled with the buckle of his belt. She gasped as his fingers found a breast and cupped it through her breastband, squeezing and pulling, before breaking the kiss and pulling her shirt over her head. She had finally managed the buckle and his clothes went too, as quickly as her shirt had done. She tugged her trousers off and kicked them to the side of the room before pulling him towards the bed and almost throwing him onto it.

She straddled him as he grasped her hips and her eyes caught his again. _"Mi dispiace," _she whispered, before she took him within her, arching her back and crying out. He kept his eyes open and watched her as she moved, letting her set the pace and take what she needed from him - what he _needed_ to give her.

She thumped on his chest, urging him to thrust up into her and he did, feeling every push of his hips like the beat of a drum sounding out her doom - and _his..._

She cried out again, shouting something guttural as she clenched around him, and he drove into her mercilessly for a few more moments until his own climax overcame him. She collapsed over him, still gasping for breath. He cradled her in his arms, squeezing his eyes shut and letting his healing sense sink into her, knowing that he shouldn't, but not able to resist it.

The taint was rampant in her. Seething and roiling like a living thing. As he ran his hands over her back he felt the small patches of corruption, here and there, that were beginning to form. He had no experience with wardens about to go on their Calling, but he'd seen his fair share of ghouls, and he knew what it looked like.

"How long?" he asked her softly.

She lifted her head and gazed at him for a long moment. "Not long," she said eventually. "I.. I may need your help, Anders," that she used his name brought tears to his eyes. "I cannot go into the deep roads from here. My only other option is... not appealing..."

His hands clenched on her arms, but he nodded. "I'll help you," he said softly. _The Maker may damn me, but no one deserves this fate._

_Aedan Cousland, I hope I get the chance to kill you for this._


	40. Chapter 40

_I have to make a big apology for this chapter. I didn't realise until I was re-reading some old chapters that I've actually referred to Alistair has carrying Duncan's sword. He wasn't supposed to, as Aedan and the others didn't bother with the Ostagar side quest (Aedan wasn't big on doing things that weren't directly Blight-related, in case you haven't noticed!) I will find those chapters and rectify the mistake._

_

* * *

_

It was so different to how he remembered. In his mind it was dark, lit only by occasional bursts of lightning (even though when he'd first arrived it had been sunny and brisk - like it was now). In his mind the rain beat down on the ground and turned everything to mud, rivulets of darkspawn, human and elven blood mixing into rivers. In his mind, Aedan was next to him, not Leliana or Oghren or Morrigan.

In his mind, Duncan was standing by the fire.

There were darkspawn corpses everywhere, legacy of the battle. Reduced to bones and scraps of armour now. Here and there he spotted a piece of gear that he recognised - there, that was Eown's shield, there, that was Gawan's baldric. His brothers, they had been. But now their bones were mixed with the bones of the darkspawn they had sworn to destroy.

There were no darkspawn now. They had retreated back to the deep roads when Loghain had killed the archdemon, or joined the architect or the mother in their attacks against Amaranthine.

"There is no point to this," Morrigan said roughly. "We are so close now, why do we delay?"

"Shut up, Morrigan," Oghren said.

The witch tutted and adjusted Ceindrech's hold on her shirt. The baby was awake, taking in everything with her clear eyes. She rarely cried now, save a short chirrup when she needed to be fed. Morrigan had adjusted the sling she wore so the child could see out when they walked. The simple delight she seemed to take in their surroundings was enough to make even Oghren smile.

But not Alistair, not today. "We'll set up camp," Oghren said. "Why don't you take a look around? I can warn if the 'spawn get close. I'll get mummy dearest and ginger here to set up some traps around us."

Alistair looked gratefully at the dwarf, who nodded and led the two women away, although Leliana looked back over her shoulder at him, her eyes questioning. He managed a smile, which she returned with some warmth, before he turned back and started into the ruins.

He found the joining chalice first. Daveth and Jory's corpses were gone - they'd had time to give them proper pyres before the attack, unlike the full wardens, but the chalice must have been forgotten after Aedan flung it from him. Alistair picked it up, tracing the designs on its panels, before stuffing it into his pack. Nathaniel would want it, if he couldn't find a place for it himself.

As he picked his way through the ruins, he found other things. The greaves of Cailan's golden armour - rusted and damaged so badly that they couldn't be used, the corpses of mabaris. When he reached the place where Duncan's fire had been he stopped, squeezing his eyes shut, remembering the sound of his mentor's voice. When he opened them he noticed a broken chest near the king's fire.

Curious, he made his way to it. It was water damaged, but still locked. However a few solid kicks broke it open completely and Alistair caught his breath.

There was a sword there, in a royal sheath. He'd seen it - in Redcliffe, on the one and only occasion he'd met his father. The blue hilt seemed unharmed by the weather, even though the sheath was showing signs of weather damage. He reached a shaking hand into the chest and pulled the blade out.

Cailan had favoured a two handed sword, but Alistair supposed he had to wear Maric's blade on occasion. And had the battle at Ostagar been the "glorious victory" his brother had been so certain it would be, he guessed King Cailan would have made a speech and waved the blade about as he did so. Something about his father and his legacy no doubt.

_What legacy do they have now? _He thought. _Me? _

The sword didn't feel right in his hand. It was unbalanced, made for someone taller, or not as strong in the arm as he (someone larger than life, perhaps). He couldn't leave it there, but it didn't feel right to take it either. It was a symbol of Maric - of the Theirin bloodline that everyone believed had died with Cailan, that had _truly _died when Aedan sentenced him to death. Torn, he finally, swung the belt of the sheath over his shoulder and continued on his way to the bridge, intending to head to the Tower of Ishal.

The corpse was unrecognisable, of course, but Alistair knew who it was. The darkspawn were crude and stupid, but they knew who had been at the head of the army - what he represented to the humans they fought. The skeleton on the cross was not his brother, not any longer, but the desecration still hurt him, surprisingly. He'd not known the man, had barely spoken to him, but he was, much as people including himself might have wished otherwise, his family.

Alistair trudged on, not sure what he was looking for, but certain he was looking for something. When he reached the Tower, made his way through it to the battlefield below, he realised what he'd been looking for.

Duncan's weapons, trapped in the ribcage of a dead ogre's skeleton were instantly recognisable. There was no way of knowing which of the bones scattered across the field were Duncan's, but at least _these_ were here. He remembered Aedan almost throwing the dead man's shield at him in Denerim before the landsmeet, remembered them taking it from him before they threw him in the dungeon at Fort Drakon. He'd carefully wrapped it before fleeing the city, but the metal had never given him a sense of the man the way these weapons did.

Duncan had never fought with a shield. He wondered why the man even bothered to own one. But the hilt of his sword was worn and dark with the man's sweat, the blade of the dagger was honed and sharpened by frequent use and attention. The weather hadn't taken its toll on these the way it had on Cailan's armour, and Alistair had no hesitation about drawing his own sword - found in the deep roads over a year ago - and replacing it with the red steel blade he'd sparred against so often. He slipped Duncan's dagger into the sheath at his boot that had remained empty since leaving Antiva, then stood.

Maric's blade had felt wrong in his hand, but the sword and dagger he'd just found made him feel complete.

So it was with three blades that he made his way back to the camp where Leliana and the others waited for him. Morrigan was tending the fire while Leliana held Ceindrech and Oghren was busy cleaning his armour.

"What'd you find out there, pike-twirler?" Oghren asked gruffly.

Alistair tossed Maric's sword and his old blade on the ground near the fire. He caught Leliana's eye. "Symbols," he said softly, resting his hand on the hilt of the new sword he wore. Morrigan eyed the more ornate blade and raised an eyebrow.

"'Tis King Maric's blade, is it not?" she asked softly. He nodded, once. "And the other?"

"My old one," he said. "We can sell them both, next time we stop at a town. Maric's at least should fetch us enough gold to keep us on the road back to Amaranthine once we're done here."

"Sell your father's sword?" Leliana said, her voice sounding horrified. "Alistair, you can't!"

He eyed the blade with faint disgust, before turning on his heel to the tent he now shared with Leliana. She followed him a short time later, once he had removed his armour, slipping into the tent with her usual grace and making his blood hum with desire at her nearness. She sat across from him in the cramped space, however, and looked at him with critical eyes.

"Have you heard the story behind your father's sword?" she asked him softly.

He allowed himself a small smile. "Of course I have," he said. "He found it in the Deep Roads. No one knows who made it, or why."

"The sword was a part of him," Leliana's soft voice was insistent. "Part of the legend that surrounded him. It is a representation of how he fought for the freedom of your people, Alistair. You cannot give it up."

"What do you propose I do with it then, Lelli?" he asked her. "I can't carry it - it'll be recognised even more easily than I would be if I shaved off this beard."

"We can use it," she said distinctly. "In the fight against Aedan."

"Is there a fight against Aedan?" he laughed bitterly. She reached out and touched his cheek. He leaned into her hand, turning his head and kissing her fingertips.

"There could be," she said.

"Not from me," he said softly. "I have other things to fight for now."

"Don't sell it, Alistair," she said, shifting closer to him. "Think about it first."

He let his hands fall to her waist and drew her close to him, kissing her neck and letting his hands reach under her shirt. She gasped as he continued to touch her, finding the places she'd led him to on their first night together. "Mmm. I've thought about it," he murmured into her neck.

"And?"

"If selling the sword gives us the money to stay in inns on the way back. With _lockable doors.. _Well…"

She giggled. "I'm serious, Alistair," she said.

"I know," he sighed, then pulled her onto his lap. "I'll keep it wrapped, in our gear, until we get back to Amaranthine. I know Nathaniel has plans. Perhaps he can use it."

She nodded.

"Time to eat, lovebirds!" Oghren's voice came from outside. Leliana rested her forehead on his for a moment, before extricating herself from his lap and crawling outside. He sat for a moment, thinking. It was another day, maybe two, to reach Flemeth's hut. If they could find the old woman - ask her what needed to be asked, he _would _be free, one way or another. He didn't know when he'd made the decision to go back to the wardens in Amaranthine, but it _was _made. If Flemeth could help them, if by a miracle Ceindrech could be saved, he knew what he wanted to be.

He touched the hilt of the dagger in his boot and closed his eyes, remembering the sound of Duncan's voice. _A warden, then, _he thought to himself. _Not Maric's son. Not the bastard prince. Just a warden. _

If he survived.


	41. Chapter 41

"She's doing remarkably well, for her first time, sire," the servant reported. Aedan had been banished from the Queen's quarters halfway through the night when she started having pains. It was now nearing late afternoon the following day. Aedan was not so naive as to have expected his wife's labour to be over in a matter of minutes, but the wait was becoming interminable. Eamon kept watch with him, although the older man spoke little. Aedan wondered if the man was thinking of the birth of his own son - gone now, of course. Locked in a Tower. He couldn't imagine that the man missed his shrew of a wife at all, but the thought of his own child possibly being taken filled Aedan with a white hot rage.

It was unlikely, of course. None of the Couslands had ever shown signs of magic - and as for the Mac-Tir's - well. Aedan had never had cause to talk to Loghain until after the Landsmeet, and he truly couldn't think of another person so mired in the mundane.

It made his fingers twitch, sometimes, that the Chantry had so much control over people with so much power. The thought almost made him chuckle - Anders would be shocked to hear him profess an opinion that, however round about, was tantamount to agreeing with him.

Another hour passed. Aedan called for wine and food, but before it arrived the servant was back. "The child is born!" the elf woman announced.

"And Anora?" Aedan asked, his voice tight.

"The Queen is well. As well as can be expected, at least."

Aedan breathed a sigh of relief. Eamon grinned and clapped him on the shoulder and Aedan nodded, surprised that the man was so obviously happy for him. But then, a secure succession was in everyone's best interests, not just his own.

Anora was propped in a cushion of pillows, a bundle in her arms. She was pale and exhausted looking, but otherwise seemed healthy. Indeed, there was a brightness and joy in her face he hadn't seen since she'd first told him she was pregnant.

"It's a boy," she said, as soon as she saw him. "I thought we might name him Bryce?"

Aedan stopped, looking at his wife. Her eyes were hopeful and her lips were turned upwards. The thought of naming his son after his father…

"Fergus beat us to it, my love," he said with a half smile, glad to have an excuse that was reasonable. He had been thinking of names - but for some reason he had been certain the baby would be a girl.

"I… ah… I don't think Loghain would be appropriate," she said sadly. "Otherwise…"

Aedan had to squash a surge of temper. "No," he said shortly. Her face fell at the sharpness of her tone, and he took a breath. "I am sorry, but you understand even with the sacrifice he made…'

"Of course," she said, her voice still slightly disappointed, but her face softened somewhat as she looked back down at the babe in her arms and stroked its cheek. "My father often spoke of his father," she said after a pause. "If Bryce isn't an appropriate choice, then perhaps…"

"Gareth is a good name," Aedan said, letting a smile of relief touch his face. He had been a hero of the rebellion, even if his part in the story had been brief. And most people would not know where the name came from. Only those who fought with Maric - like Eamon - would easily recognise the name of Loghain's commoner father. And Aedan had a great deal of admiration for the man, much as he might have believed his methods could have been more effective.

"Would you like to hold him?"

Aedan came to the edge of the bed and looked down at the child in his wife's arms. It was tiny, but peaceful, its… _his _eyes closed in sleep. "Should I?" he asked.

"The midwife says he'll probably sleep for a few hours before he needs feeding again," Anora said.

"Shall I send for the wetnurse?" They had arranged for one a week ago, and she had taken up residence in the servants quarters shortly afterwards.

"The midwife will arrange for her to come when she's needed," Anora said, and there was a lightness to her voice he'd not heard before. She lifted the child up towards him and he took him, gingerly, settling him in the crook of his arm and running a finger over the soft blond down covering his head. He felt a connection to the small body he held in his hands beyond anything he'd ever felt before and he felt his heart constrict in something akin to need.

_My son, _he thought.

There had been an official announcement and parade. The people of Denerim had been treated to a feast and a holiday to celebrate Prince Gareth's birth, and the town was just settling back into its routine. Aedan had gauged the mood of the city to have improved a great deal in recent weeks. Attacks by the White Lady had ceased for the time being and the elves were quiet in the Alienage.

He knew, from gossip, that the rumours about him dabbling in blood magic were still rampant, however. Carroll had set his best men on it, but Aedan had little hope of their success - none of them had a gift for intrigue. Anora was up and about - obviously still weak but looking better than she had in months. The constant debilitating nausea was gone and a spring had returned to her step. Her waist was still thick but the midwife assured them both it would be back to normal in a few weeks.

Aedan was at the practice field in the crisp autumn air, a week after the birth, when the messenger from Soldier's Peak arrived. He had sent Edwin - a trusted member of the guard. The man was competent, although young, and Aedan was pleased to see he hadn't let the dangers of the road catch up to him - unlike the last person he'd taken to the old fortress.

"Your Majesty," the man bowed

"Where's Avernus?"

Edwin looked nervous. "Your Majesty, the mage Avernus was not at the peak."

Aedan nearly dropped his sword. "What?"

"The peak was completely deserted, your majesty. No sign of anyone at all."

"You searched the entire fortress? It is very large…"

"Sire, I assure you it was completely empty. There were no signs of recent habitation either. I found herbalism equipment in the tower room but it was old and disused."

Aedan pursed his lips. "No body?"

"There were… ah.. _many_ corpses, sire. But they were ancient. Just bones. Certainly dead for more than a few months."

"Andraste's blood," Aedan swore, sheathing his sword and stalking towards the armoury. Edwin and his guards fell into step behind him. He reached the armoury and started to strip off his plate, his mind racing. If Avernus had died, his belongings and research would have remained, not to mention his body. So he had left the Peak. Aedan couldn't imagine why the old man would venture out after all this time. The only thing he would need to leave the fortress for at all would be to collect the supplies Aedan had been sending regularly - and the last shipment had been _before _he'd written to Nathaniel to send a warden to investigate…

His fingers paused on the buckles of his greaves. This… this could be very bad indeed. He took a deep breath and continued to remove his armour, then dismissed the guard and made his way quickly to his wife's quarters.

"Well," Anora said. "Obviously I'd prefer if you didn't go yourself, but if you think it's necessary.."

"I am sorry, Anora," Aedan said. "I would much rather stay here with the two of you, but if I'm right there's a problem with the wardens and we really can't afford to have…"

"Oh, I know, Aedan, I know. And I'm feeling much better now - certainly good enough that we no longer need to use Eamon as our regent. Which is all for the better, considering the rumours…"

Aedan winced. "You've heard them, then?"

She laughed and laid a hand on his. "Indeed, my love. But we both know they're ridiculous. And leaving me to rule while you're gone is probably the best thing we can possibly do to dispel them."

He caught her eye and smiled, suddenly. She was right, of course. The rumours pegged her as being under his direct control through blood magic. If he wasn't present it would go a long way towards proving those rumours untrue.

He lifted her hand and kissed her fingertips, feeling a rush of gratitude for her presence, and her renewed health. "I doubt I'll be gone more than a week," he said, surprised at how fervently he hoped that would be the case. "It's good to have you back, Anora." She squeezed his fingers in hers.


	42. Chapter 42

Nathaniel watched his wardens in the practice yard, satisfaction spreading through his belly as they worked. Warriors were paired off against rogues, Antivans and Orlesians mixed in evenly amongst the Fereldens. The few mages they had were practicing elsewhere - Velanna had muttered something about none of them knowing any spells worth anything in a battle situation and Nathaniel wasn't ready to have all of their practice dummies set on fire, but apart from that, he was looking out at most of his fighting force and he couldn't help but feel satisfied.

Their forays into the deep roads were coming back more and more often with no sightings of darkspawn to report - it seemed their tactics had been working. Since the departure of Alistair and Morrigan and the child, there had been barely any attacks in the neighbouring countryside. The people of Amaranthine were finally beginning to settle after the losses of the Blight and the horror of The Architect and The Mother's squabbling.

He was drawn out of his reverie by the arrival of a messenger - one of the fast couriers Zevran had insisted on setting up before he left for Denerim. Nate's heart pounded in his chest - these messengers were only meant for emergencies.

"What is it?"

"Commander," the elf bowed and handed him a letter with a plain seal, before departing for the kitchens. Nate walked quickly to his office, where he broke the seal on the letter. One line, written in Zevran's flowing script.

_The Prince Consort is on his way to Vigil's Keep._

* * *

Avernus was pretty well hidden, but Nathaniel didn't want to take any chances. Not for the first time, he thanked the Maker he had not shown Aedan the secret room in the basement of the Vigil where his father had kept his treasures - it was small, and cramped, but nothing worse than Avernus had forced any of his own victims to endure for longer. Nate made certain he was well supplied with food and water and hoped that Aedan wasn't planning on staying long. Avernus, to his credit, chuckled at Nate's concern.

"Truly, you are the most pathetic example of a Warden Commander it's ever been my misfortune to serve under," he said.

"Always a pleasure, Avernus," Nate muttered under his breath as he pushed the secret door shut. If Aedan planned on staying more than a day he didn't want to know what the room would be like at the end of it.

When Varel came into his office a few hours later to announce that the Prince's men had been sighted on the road to the Vigil, Nathaniel did his best to look surprised. He trusted Varel, of course, but he preferred to keep as few people as possible in the loop as far as information coming in and out of the Vigil was concerned.

"Do we have quarters available for him?" he asked.

"Certainly, Commander," Varel said. "The royal suite…"

"Of course," Nathaniel said dryly. His father's old rooms. Nathaniel had flat out refused to occupy them, staying instead in the room that had once been Thomas'. He got to his feet, sheathing Starfang on his back - his gift from Aedan - and walked down to the gates with Varel by his side.

Aedan looked different. His hair was still pulled back severely, his ice blue eyes still took in every detail, but there was a spring in his step that seemed out of place for the man and Nathaniel took a moment to wonder if fatherhood could possibly have changed him as much as it had changed Alistair.

"Commander," Aedan said, nodding firmly as he approached and holding out a hand.

"Your Majesty," Nathaniel said formally. He was not required to kneel - as Arl Nathaniel's rank was technically equal to that of Prince Consort, but he gave a full bow, acknowledging the difference in their status, which Aedan noted with approval in his expression. Nathaniel repressed the urge to smile - it was just like Aedan to notice that Nathaniel knew the intricacies of court etiquette and _employed _them. Couslands and Howes to the end, it seemed, no matter the things that had happened in between.

"This is an unexpected pleasure," he said. "To what do we owe this visit?"

"Shall we retire to your office?" Aedan said. "This is, first and foremost, Warden business. Not something to be discussed in front of everyone."

"Of course," Nathaniel gestured for Aedan to go ahead of him. The man knew where his office was - it had, after all, been _his_ office until quite recently.

Once they were settled and Nathaniel had called for refreshments, Aedan leaned back in his chair and eyed Nathaniel.

"I believe congratulations are in order," Nathaniel said.

A satisfied smile spread across Aedan's face. "Indeed," he said. "It's a relief, truly, to have them both healthy. We were worried about Anora."

"I imagine she's in much better spirits now?"

"Fully recovered, thank you," Aedan said. "But that's not why I'm here."

"I didn't suppose so."

"Why didn't you send me a report on the expedition to Soldier's Peak?" Aedan asked bluntly. "I've been waiting to hear from you."

Nathaniel hoped his look of surprise was genuine enough to fool the man. "My apologies, your majesty," Nathaniel said. "I assumed it was Warden business." Aedan's lips tightened in anger and Nathaniel took a deep breath. "You're right, I am sorry," Nathaniel said. "You may have a copy of the report, I'll have it prepared for you before you leave. But as the funds for the reconstruction would be coming from Weisshaupt and not the royal treasury…"

"Weisshaupt?"

"Indeed," Nathaniel allowed himself to sit back. "Weisshaupt wrote to me not long after you did, requesting exactly the same thing. I assumed you'd be happy enough to pass off the expense…"

Aedan raised an eyebrow. "Given the state of the Ferelden treasury I certainly would," he said. "So is the reconstruction possible?"

Nathaniel shrugged "Francesca said the fortress is well constructed - there's no reason why it couldn't be brought up to a workable condition. But it will take a good deal of time and manpower. To tell the truth if you'd waited a few more days I would have sent a full report to you detailing what work crews would be needed but that hasn't been completed as yet…"

"Francesca - she's the warden you sent to investigate?"

Nathaniel nodded. "One of our Antivans. Extremely competent."

"May I speak with her?"

Nathaniel forced his voice calm. "I'm afraid she's not with us at the moment," he said. "I sent her on a recruitment mission, with Anders and Sigrun."

"Ah," Aedan nodded and looked to the window, his face troubled. "This is why I couldn't have Anders at the palace for the birth, I presume?"

Nathaniel nodded. "I thought it best to get him out of the Keep for a while," Nathaniel allowed himself a small smile, and Aedan chuckled. "The darkspawn seemed to have retreated for now, we have less use for a healer than we used to. And he is truly insufferable if he hasn't been out for a while."

"I can sympathise," Aedan said. "Still. The warden, Francesca, she had nothing else to report about the peak?"

"She mentioned a feeling of unease," Nathaniel said. "And a great deal of corpses. Oghren said there was some trouble with the veil when you first went there?"

Aedan nodded, his face wary. "Indeed. Although with the help of Morrigan we were able to fix that."

_And Avernus, _Nathaniel thought to himself. _And not completely, I'll wager._

"I was planning on sending some mage wardens up to see if they could sense anything Francesca couldn't, once she and Anders return. I don't really want to send work crews up there if they're going to be spooked."

"That's a good idea," Aedan said. Nathaniel sat and watched the Prince Consort, wondering if he'd managed to convince him that all was well. Truly, he probably should have been more inquisitive, asked Aedan _why _he'd insisted on only one warden going to the peak, but he didn't want to press his luck, and Aedan seemed satisfied with his explanation. Indeed, if for whatever reason Avernus had decided to leave the peak on his own, what Nathaniel reported was precisely what Francesca and Anders would have found. He didn't imagine his explanation would convince Aedan for long, but it might be enough to get the Prince Consort on his way.

"So, your majesty, how long were you planning to stay?"

"Anxious to get rid of me, Nathaniel?"

He forced a smile. "Not at all. I wondered if you might like a tour of the facilities - maybe a trip to the deep roads? I think you'll be pleased at the lack of darkspawn activity."

"I wasn't planning on an extended stay," he said. "Two more days, if your staff are up to it? I would very much like to see how the barrier door is holding up - how your men are dealing with the darkspawn."

"You might be interested to know that Velanna has returned," Nathaniel said, and was pleased to see Aedan's eyes widen in surprise.

"Well now," he said. "That _is _interesting. Did she say where she'd been?"

"Looking for her sister," Nathaniel said. "Whom she found, incidentally."

"I assume from your expression she died from the taint?" Aedan said. Nathaniel nodded. "Well, it was to be expected. None of the research notes we found went into detail over how the Architect was able to delay it. And believe me, I checked very thoroughly."

_I'll bet you did. _

Aedan left to get settled in his quarters shortly afterwards. It was near sunset and Nathaniel went for his customary walk along the battlements, looking out over the surrounding fields. Avernus would be fine for two days. The room might get a little smelly, but considering the man had spent over two hundred years in a fortress full of rotting corpses, Nathaniel reasoned he'd be able to cope. None of the wardens in the keep proper had any knowledge of the events at Soldier's Peak, and for the first time he was actually glad he'd sent those closest to him away.

Perhaps it was that thought that summoned them.

Nate was leaning out over the battlements when he saw the two figures. They were walking briskly, the faint glow of magic surrounding them. He cursed under his breath as a blond head came into view and the fading sunlight glinted off the earring in his ear. The hilts of two blades poking up on the back of the other figure told him his worst fear was confirmed - Anders and Francesca had returned.

Truly, the man had absolutely no sense of timing.


	43. Chapter 43

It was dusk. They were perched on a rooftop, overlooking the estate, hidden behind an outcrop. There were too many guards, and some of them weren't what they seemed. After a moment he slipped back into shadow and allowed himself to sit down, eyeing his companion, who was crouching in front of him, suspiciously.

"What?" she said.

"You have already attempted this," Zevran said coldly. She tilted her chin defiantly.

"And if I have?"

"Do you take me for a fool? I need all the information you have if you wish for this to succeed - unless you were hoping for me to make the attempt and die?"

Her confident gaze faltered and he felt a surge of something… tenderness? that was quickly quashed.

"I… I thought…"

"Well, that is a start," she snapped her head up to catch his gaze again, eyes blazing, but he was smiling, slightly. She glared for a moment, before she let out a huff of laughter of her own and sat back on her haunches. He leaned forward and lifted her chin with a finger, raising his eyebrow. "This death is very important to you, no?"

She clenched her jaw. "Yes," she said fiercely.

"Why?"

"You don't need to know."

"Very well, let me tell you."

"What?"

He chuckled. "I am hardly ignorant. And I do not come into a city in which I plan to work without learning of recent events. So… let me see - two years ago? More or less - the Arl of Denerim kidnapped five elvish lasses from, of all things, a wedding ceremony. I am too familiar with the whims and desires of human lords not to know what happened next."

"I escaped," she said. "But he kept my cousin for two days. _Two days, _crow. Do you have any idea what…"

He nodded, sadly. "Unfortunately, _la mia ragazza feroce, _I do." He reached out and touched her shoulder, which was shaking with repressed rage. "I am very happy to help you do this thing, Kallian. But we must wait. His guards are on alert, he is too well protected, and unless I am mistaken - which I very, very rarely am - the Prince Consort is keeping him under surveillance. He wants to catch _you_ - do not give him the opportunity."

She sighed and looked away, the golden light of the setting sun glinting in her white hair. "So what now?" she said. "You have tied my hands. You say I must suspend my activities in the city, I cannot have the death I wish, truly do you still work for the Cousland? Because you seem to be achieving everything he wished!"

"I was released from my oath of service," Zevran said softly. "Believe me, if I had been released earlier…" _I would have killed him._

"You swore an oath to him?" She cocked her head, looking curious.

Zevran shrugged. "I was contracted to kill him," he said. "When I failed he spared my life. It seemed the prudent thing to do under the circumstances. Why else would he trust a man who had tried to kill him?"

"So he trusted you?"

Zevran thought of Aedan, then - the blue eyes, the hard lines of his mouth. He had never given Zevran watch on his own - or Loghain for that matter. "I do not believe Aedan Cousland is capable of trust," he said eventually. "But the oath I made probably kept me alive for long enough to serve his purposes. Enough of his companions deserted him during the Blight, he could not afford to lose us all."

"You sound almost like you admire him."

"Men such as he are easy to admire," Zevran said, then he grinned. "But difficult to like."

She raised an eyebrow and smiled back at him. The setting sun made everything about her softer - the hard lines of constant fighting and poor nutrition were smoothed away and her brown eyes were warm rather than harsh. _A true beauty, _he thought to himself. He blinked to clear his thoughts. "The man is a snake," he said finally. "I do not serve him. In fact, I am here with the express purpose of bringing him down."

"You know, he promised to help us when the slavers were here," Kallian said. "But all we ended up with was a warehouse full of bodies. My… father was one of them."

_A warehouse full of bodies… _Zevran blinked. He'd been a fool, he realised. Rinna had thrown him - more than he wanted to admit to himself. They had the perfect weapon against Aedan - all he needed to do was use it.

* * *

"Why are we here?" Kallian had her arms crossed over her chest as Zevran searched through the warehouse. He had little information beyond what Alistair had managed to tell him through the haze of his rage once they had got back to Eamon's estate. The boy had been practically frothing at the mouth at Aedan's actions. Zevran had been coldly furious - tempted to take a dagger to the Cousland's throat despite his oath of service, but even Alistair had acknowledged that doing such _before _the archdemon was defeated would be pointless.

_None _of them had suspected the coup Aedan had pulled at the Landsmeet, however.

"You said no one has used the warehouse since the slavers left?" Zevran said. She shook her head. They were in the final room - a room Zevran could tell by Alistair's description was where Aedan had made his deal with Caladrius. There was certainly _something _in the air that made him feel uneasy, but Zevran couldn't put his finger on what. "We need a mage," he muttered. "Or a Templar…"

"What for?"

Zevran looked at her, suddenly nervous about letting her know exactly what Aedan had done in this room. "Aedan Cousland has committed more crimes than you know," he said after a moment. "The greatest one - arguably, was here in this room."

"What did he do?"

"He murdered twenty elves," Zevran said. "With blood magic."

Kallian gasped. "He did _what?"_

"I wasn't here," Zevran said. "And he arranged for those who were to be… disposed of. There are no witnesses left. I was hoping to find some evidence here that could prove what he did…"

"Hence your need for a Templar," she said, looking away and frowning. Her hands had fallen straight to the hilts of the daggers she wore at her waist, and Zevran was again struck at how ready the young woman was for violence. A simple need for revenge didn't hone skills like that. She must have had training from someone used to combat. "I don't know why I'm surprised," she said after a moment, then took a shaky breath. "I don't know which fate would have been worse. My father… my father could never have lived as a slave. But the Cousland… he could have _saved _them…?" She looked at him, hopeful, although for what Zevran didn't know. Did she want him to tell her Aedan had done what he did because it was necessary? Aedan would have thought so. Anything it took to defeat the Blight.

"The information will do us no good unless we can prove it," Zevran said finally.

"You know, there is one here, in the alienage," she said after a moment.

"Here?"

"A Templar. He's been here for months - asking for help - but no one..." she shifted uncomfortably. "No one has helped him."

"Help?"

She shrugged. "Something to do with the alienage feeling 'wrong'," she snorted. "As if it could possibly feel _right _at the moment. To be honest he was dismissed as crazy, but he keeps hanging around."

"Well, crazy or not, his skills might be all we need. Where is he now?"

"I think he has a pallet at Dilandra's inn," Kallian said. Zevran cocked an eyebrow.

"He is my bunk mate?" he chuckled. "I should have known I was sharing with a Templar. Had I spent enough time there. Shall we go and see him?"

* * *

The Templar was blind. Zevran should not have been as surprised as he was, yet there was something eerie about seeing the man so calm about his state. Perhaps it was the lyrium addiction that made him so - or perhaps the obvious faith the man had, but it added to his strangeness. It was not difficult to see why the elves of the alienage had dismissed his claims as the ravings of a madman.

He was folding laundry and replacing it meticulously in his pack when they found him. It was no wonder Zevran had never crossed paths with the man - it seemed he was up before dawn and asleep well before Zevran returned to the alienage (being unrestrained by the curfew that affected the rest of his brethren).

"You wish my help?" Ser Otto said. "To detect blood magic?"

"Indeed," Zevran said. "A Templar friend of mine once said it was possible…"

"It is," Ser Otto sat back on his heels and cocked his head on one side. "Although it depends upon how much magic was used, and how long ago."

Zev pursed his lips and looked at Kallian, who was leaning against the wall of the room looking unimpressed. "More than a year ago," he said softly. "Although from what I know, the spell was extremely powerful."

Otto raised his eyebrows. "Well, there will still be traces," he said. "I can certainly try to help you. But I would ask for something in return."

"You want us to help you sort out this wrong feeling you're getting?" Kallian said roughly. Otto turned his face to her, his head weaving and searching in the way of the sightless, and let out a small sigh.

"I have received little in the way of positive reactions to my request here," he said sadly. "Even though I am certain the danger is real."

"Well, ser Templar, I've got news for you. My people have had _other _things to worry about…"

Otto hung his head. "I am aware," he said. "Yet, I do believe that things might not have been so bad had I managed to solve this problem before…"

Kallian pushed off the wall, frowning. "You're telling me you think you could have stopped Aedan Cousland from slaughtering us out of hand?" she said.

The Templar rocked back away from her aggression and held up a hand. "I am sorry," he said. "The veil is thin in the alienage. Things are leaking through. If I could have found the reason before the riots started, perhaps your people would not have reacted so aggressively. Perhaps the city guard wouldn't have been forced…"

Kallian's breath hissed between her teeth and she clenched her fists. "You arrogant…"

"Kallian!" Zevran grabbed her arm to stop her from braining the poor man the way she obviously wanted to. "This serves no purpose." She freed herself from his grip with a snort and stalked to the other side of the room. Zevran looked back at the blind templar, who seemed neither surprised nor offended by Kallian's outburst, but was merely sitting with his hands loosely in his lap. "I, at least, am willing to help you, Ser Templar," Zevran said.

"You have my thanks," Otto replied. "I believe the problem is in the old orphanage. Perhaps we could travel there now?"

Zevran looked over at Kallian, who was glaring at the Templar with undisguised distrust. "Indeed," he said. "Time is of the essence. Now would be fine."


	44. Chapter 44

He was exhausted. They'd traveled hasted all the way from Highever, his mana reserves were lower than he liked and he was completely out of lyrium. As they approached the gates, he was shocked to see the dark haired figure of Nathaniel waiting for them, arms crossed over his chest, face thunderous. He didn't think he'd ever seen Nathaniel that obviously discomforted. Even when they'd come face to face with the Mother the stoic archer had merely blinked.

"Anders," he said as they approached, then cursed, long and extremely eloquently. The man had obviously been spending too much time with Oghren. "Of all the wretched, stupid, idiotic…"

"It's nice to see you too Commander," Anders said, cocking an eyebrow.

"What are you _doing _here?"

"Francesca's in the grip of her _Calling_…"

"It is _not _a good time."

"Tell _her _that, you arrogant son of a…"

"Aedan's _here…"_

"_What?" _

"The Prince Consort of Ferelden is in Vigil's Keep, you arse. Why on Thedas… " Nathaniel trailed off and stepped back. The lightning had flared without any conscious thought. Anders felt the air crackle around him and Pounce yowled, jumping down from his pack.

"Anders!" Nathaniel's shout barely registered, all he could think of was the chance to get at the bastard who had killed her. He shoved the archer aside and started towards the keep, before a hand on his arm and a sickening lurch brought him back to earth.

All of his mana was gone. He rounded on Francesca, whose tired eyes caught his. A sad smile played around her lips.

"_Siate calmi, mio carissimo amico," _she said softly. He took a shuddering breath. _"Per favore, _Anders. I do not wish you to be hurt."

His mouth worked as he looked at her. It was hard to speak, hard to think. "Francesca…"

"Anders, please."

"Listen to her you fool mage," Nathaniel hissed. "Confronting Aedan now will just get you hanged. We have to be careful, we're on a knife edge here."

"Where is he?"

"As far as I know he's in his quarters. The guards will have told him you've arrived, I've no doubt he'll want to talk to Francesca…"

"She's in no condition to talk to _anyone…" _Anders felt the anger building again but Francesca's hand on his arm was firm.

"Truly, _guidata _you are righteous and magnificent in your rage, but it will only get you killed." He looked at her. Her lips were curled in a smile. Pounce was curling around her feet, looking at him as though he was a fool… which of course, if he acknowledged it, he _was…_

"Get inside, the two of you. Francesca, come to my office as soon as you're ready. And for the sake of the Maker, keep your mouths _shut _about Avernus."

"Not entirely stupid, you know," Anders said.

Nathaniel cocked an eyebrow. _"Prove it," _he said, then turned on his heel and stalked back into the keep. Anders looked down at Francesca, who still had that gentle smile on her lips.

"I don't want you going up there by yourself," he said.

"This man is hardly going to hasten my death," she said. "And you are in no condition to face him. Not like that."

"I…"

"Pish, Anders. You're leaking magic like a _setaccio, _if I hadn't drained you half the keep would be burnt down by now."

He bared his teeth at her and she laughed. "Nathaniel and I have discussed what I need to say to the Prince Consort. I will be fine. Please, Anders, go."

He scooped up Pounce, who immediately butted his chin and started to purr. "Fine," he said. "But come straight to me after. I need to make sure you're all right."

* * *

He was only in his quarters for a few moments when the messenger came to fetch him.

"What?"

"The Warden Commander wishes to see you in his office."

"Me as well?" Anders almost growled. Damn Aedan, he must want to pester Anders about something as well. Maker knew what.

Ten minutes later he was standing outside Nate's office, waiting for Francesca to come out so he could go in. His magic wanted to flare up and it was taking an awful lot of willpower to keep it under control - he'd gotten far too used to not worrying about that sort of thing.

_You wouldn't last three seconds as an apostate any more, _he thought to himself.

Another half an hour and the door opened, revealing a pale and sweaty Francesca. Anders rushed to her side, anger forgotten in his concern for her, but she waved him aside. "I am fine, _guidata_ do not bother. Nathaniel wishes to see you."

"You're _not _fine…" Anders said forcefully. Francesca reached up and took his chin in her fingers - her strength still far greater than his own.

"I _am _Anders. _Per il bene del creatore _control yourself, for both our sakes." He narrowed his eyes at her. She drained his mana _again _and he couldn't help the laugh that huffed out of him, despite the anger and concern gnawing at his belly. "Good," she said.

"I'll come to you later."

She nodded in acknowledgement, then pushed him towards the door.

"Anders," Aedan's cool voice cut through him and he clenched his fists, forcing himself to meet the blue gaze calmly. Nate was sitting behind his desk, Aedan perched on the edge of it. "I am sorry to hear about your friend."

Anders blinked. "My friend?"

"The Antivan warden. I understand her Calling…."

Anders nodded. "Yes. Well. She is nearing fifty. It's to be expected. Or so I'm told."

"Indeed," Aedan looked slightly troubled at that.

"What did you wish to see me for, ser?" Anders said. Nate rolled his eyes, and Aedan's lips tightened, but he was _buggered _if he'd call the man _your majesty. _Not sodding likely.

"I assume you've heard Anora has delivered our son?"

"Oh, yes. Congratulations."

"I wished to ask you to attend her. The healers we have in Denerim are… not of your calibre."

Anders blinked. "You want me to _what?"_

"I wish for you to accompany me back to Denerim. Anora was very ill during this pregnancy. We're naturally not keen on it happening again."

Anders sought Nate's eyes. "I… well… that's an honour, your majesty. But…"

"Your Majesty, I've already mentioned we need Anders here at the Vigil, he _is _a warden first and foremost…"

Aedan's eyes flashed. "Technically, Nathaniel, I am still Warden Commander here…"

Nathaniel pursed his lips. "Actually, your majesty, I'm afraid that isn't the case."

Aedan turned and glared at Nathaniel. Anders had to stop himself from crowing.

"What?"

"According to Weisshaupt, I am Warden Commander, your Majesty. The transfer of power was acknowledged and confirmed in their last communication."

Even with his back to him, Anders could see the muscle working in Aedan's jaw. "I see," he said finally. "And are you going to deny me my request, _Commander Howe?"_

Anders wished fervently he could communicate with Nathaniel with the power of his mind. When his Commander sighed, however, Anders' heart sank. "I am not," Nathaniel said. "But I do ask that you release him quickly. I don't like being without a healer at the Vigil for long."

"Entirely understandable," Aedan said briskly, although Anders could tell he was still angry. Nate had pushed a sore spot, obviously. "I shall leave you to it, then. Anders, I'll expect you at the gates at dawn in two days. We want to get back to Denerim as soon as possible."

Anders managed a small tip of the head. "As you say, ser," he said softly. Aedan eyed him for a moment, before nodding to Nathaniel and leaving the room.

Once Aedan had gone, the archer sank back into his chair, briefly resting his forehead in his hands. "Maker's breath," he swore softly. "You'll be the death of me."

"You can't seriously expect me to go back with that sodding _snake _of a man…"

Nathaniel's head snapped up and Anders clamped his mouth shut on whatever he was about to say next.

"Anders, I've been patient with you, these past few months. Maker knows you're a valuable warden, but so help me try me like that again and I'll give you back to Avernus."

"Francesca…"

"… is about to go on her Calling. I know. But you can't help her, Anders."

_But I can be with her. _He opened his mouth, then shut it again. Two days wasn't enough time.

"She spoke to me before Aedan got here, Anders," Nathaniel said. "I've… provided her with a poison. Something slow acting. To take to the deep roads. She'll take it before she goes - to be certain…"

_She doesn't become a broodmother…_

Anders turned his back, quickly, and squeezed his eyes shut. "I have to go," he managed to force out between clenched teeth. He didn't hear Nathaniel's reply as he stumbled out of the office.

She was waiting. In his room. He didn't even know which was hers, he realised when he got there. _So little time…_

She didn't speak. Just cupped his cheek in her hand and drew him close to her. He rested his head on hers, drinking in her presence, feeling the crawl of the taint through her veins, wishing for everything to be different.

If wishing were all it took, he would have been in Tevinter years ago.

If wishing were all it took, his mother would still be alive.

If wishing were all it took, Aedan Cousland would be dead.

* * *

Two days later he walked from the Vigil, next to the royal coach, with the taste of ashes in his mouth and a lock of her hair next to his heart.


	45. Chapter 45

"So, does it feel like home?" Alistair was walking next to Morrigan, watching his daughter occasionally smile and giggle at nothing. Morrigan tolerated his presence, but chose not to engage in dialogue.

"What?"

Alistair waved a hand, indicating the shaggy wilderness that surrounded them. "This. Does it feel like coming home."

"Not in the way you mean," she said shortly. "It is familiar, yes. But I suspect your idea of home is somewhat different to mine."

"Oh, I don't know. Chantry cloisters have a lot in common with unchartered wilderness. The cries of wild animals, the fighting for survival…"

She rolled her eyes at him, but he was almost certain he caught the hint of a grin around her full lips. It faded quickly, however, and she turned to him, touching his arm. "We are close to Flemeth's hut," she said softly. "Alistair… there is something I would ask of you."

Alistair cocked an eyebrow. Leliana and Oghren passed ahead of them and he caught Lelli's eye. She raised her eyebrow, but nodded and continued on.

"What is it, Morrigan?"

"I know I have not been… honest with you. There is no reason why you would trust me, or help me, save in that it may help her…"

"You can get to the point, Morrigan."

"You were willing to kill Ceindrech, back when you found out what she was, were you not?"

He fingered the hilt of his sword. "I was," he said.

"Are you still?"

"What do you mean, Morrigan?"

"Will you kill her, if you have to? Even knowing it may cost your life?"

"I… ah…" he closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. As a warden, his answer was easy. Ceindrech was a blight waiting to happen, if she _was _to die, it would have to be by a warden's hand, to be certain the death was final. As a father…

"Alistair?"

"I would," he said. Morrigan nodded and closed her eyes. It was hard to tell her expression, but he guessed it was relief. Maker help him, he didn't want to have to do it.

"Ware, Pike Twirler!" Oghren's voice cut through. "Darkspawn."

Alistair blinked. He hadn't felt them, but the tingling sensation was unmistakable now that Oghren had pointed it out. "Get back with Ceindrech," he said to Morrigan, who nodded and ducked behind a ridge.

He and Oghren and Leliana spread out, Lelli taking a spot on the ridge that hid Morrigan and Ceindrech, Oghren and Alistair drawing their weapons and settling to wait. They had had many such encounters since entering the Wilds - never large groups, but always quick to attack.

When the darkspawn came, however, it wasn't what he expected. A hurlock, tall and singular, scampered towards them, but it held no weapons and did not attack.

"Please to be lowering your weapons!" it lisped. Alistair's jaw dropped and Oghren gave a short grunt.

"Huh. One of _these."_

"Talking darkspawn?"

The dwarf nodded. "It probably won't attack us," he said. "But be wary. One of them shot us into the fade once. Although it was under direct orders from the mother of all broodmothers. She's dead now, though, so maybe this is just a straggler?"

"A long way from Amaranthine," Alistair said.

Oghren nodded. "He's had a few months to get down here."

Alistair tightened his grip on his shield and sword, but nodded at the approaching figure.

"What do you want?" he called.

"The woman of many years - she sends me to you. She wishes you to come to her."

"The woman of many years?"

"He means Flemeth," Leliana called down. Alistair looked up to see that she hadn't lowered her bow, either. She was keeping the darkspawn in her sights. "That is what the Dalish call her."

Alistair turned back to the darkspawn. "You came from Flemeth?"

The darkspawn cowered and touched his head in a bizarre parody of deference. "Yes. Yes. The woman of many years. She wishes you to come, to where it is safe from my brethren."

"But not safe from her," Morrigan's voice was high and incredulous as she appeared over the ridge. The darkspawn squinted up at her, she was backed by the light of the setting sun, then crouched in a cower.

"You brought the child!" it cried. "The one that sings the song!"

"Hang on, hang on," Oghren muscled forward. "I thought you guys couldn't hear the song any more. Wasn't that the whole problem?"

The darkspawn eyed Oghren, but it was impossible to tell its expression - did darkspawn even _have _expressions? "The dwarf is correct. But she of many years tells us these things."

"Us?" Alistair said sharply. "There are more of you?"

"Please to be coming with me. More will be explained."

"No!" Morrigan cried. "You, go to Flemeth. Tell her to come _here, _not to send her lackeys. We will not walk into a trap of her making."

"She said you would say this," the darkspawn said. "She said you would not do as you should."

Morrigan's voice was supremely unimpressed. "Did she," she muttered. Alistair looked up to see the swamp witch scanning the area. "There _is _a surprise."

Alistair didn't know what was going through Morrigan's head, but he agreed with her on one thing. Following the darkspawn would be foolish. He stuck his sword in the ground and laid his shield against it. "Right," he said. "You can toddle off and tell the woman of many years that the Warden of not so many years and his companions, including her _granddaughter,_ will be waiting right here if she wants to pay us a visit."

"No need, Alistair," Morrigan said. "She's already here."

"Ah, lovely Morrigan," came a familiar voice. "You always were the smartest of my daughters."

"Flemeth," Morrigan said. Alistair turned to see the woman he and Aedan had first encountered in the wilds nearly four years ago standing directly behind them. Leliana had her bow trained on the older woman now, and Oghren was covering the talking darkspawn. Flemeth didn't seemed bothered by this in the slightest.

"This is the man you found for your ritual, dearest?" Flemeth said, passing her eyes over Alistair in such a way that he felt a little hot around the ears. "I thought you would have picked the other."

"I did."

"Standing _right _here," Alistair muttered. He doubted they heard, however.

"He looks like his father," Flemeth said.

"Oh, and how would _you _know?" Alistair said.

"Favours him in the brains department as well, it seems," Flemeth chuckled. "Where is Ceindrech?"

Morrigan hadn't moved from her spot on the ridge. Ceindrech was strapped to her back, her little arms clinging to the back of Morrigan's robes. "She's with me, mother. Where she's going to stay."

"You think so?"

"I _know _so," Alistair said.

"You would defend her? Pretty Morrigan who tricked you into fathering a child?"

"I would defend _Ceindrech," _Alistair said. Flemeth's eyes flashed with an unrecognisable emotion. Alistair doubted he would ever be able to fathom the motives of someone who had lived as long as she in their entirety, but he couldn't help noting that there were deep lines around her eyes and the hint of feebleness in her step.

"So," Flemeth said. "Why do you return?"

"Surely you already know, mother," Morrigan said. Flemeth laughed, high and long. The sound sent a shiver down Alistair's spine.

"Oh, I think I do indeed. You managed to decipher the ritual, but you don't quite know how to deal with the consequences, do you my pretty one?"

"You can suppress the call," Morrigan said.

"Indeed I have a spell that will do so," Flemeth said smugly. "But why should I do this for you?"

"Because otherwise I will kill you," Morrigan said. Flemeth threw back her head and laughed as though this were the funniest thing she'd ever heard. "Kill me and you will never learn to suppress the song that child is singing. Kill me, and you will die, and so will she, and a new blight will ravage the land!"

Morrigan's chin tilted, and her yellow eyes flashed in anger. "But you will still be dead, old woman," she said coldly.

"Wait," Alistair said. "You can suppress this song Ceindrech is sending out?" Flemeth nodded. "What do you want in return?"

"I want Morrigan," Flemeth said. "Give me my daughter back, and I shall do as you wish, son of Maric."

"So you can possess me, mother? As you did my sisters?"

Flemeth spread her hands and cocked an eyebrow. "Naturally," she said. "If it means your daughter will live, surely you would be willing to sacrifice yourself?"

He watched Morrigan, standing tall and proud on the ridge. She made her way down to them slowly - her graceful walk reminding him of the first time he'd seen her at the ruined Grey Warden Tower. Something beautiful and dangerous, he'd thought then. Morrigan's shoulders were slumped, however, and he could see she was considering the offer. That she would - consider sacrificing her own _life - _that was so far removed from what he knew of her character that he was momentarily frozen.

In the back of his head a small fantasy was playing out, one that he was helpless to stop. Flemeth would take Morrigan's body and Alistair could take Ceindrech - a Ceindrech free of the song of the archdemon - back to the wardens. He could raise her as his own, without Morrigan's interference.

She would take the offer. Ceindrech would be his. He could….

…take Ceindrech from her mother. And he'd be leaving behind him a powerful enemy. One who undoubtably had plans for Ceindrech herself. Plans that he wouldn't have the first idea how to fathom.

Flemeth watched as her daughter came towards them, a gleam in her eye as the baby came into view. That gleam, more than anything, told him there was no way Flemeth would leave he and Ceindrech in peace. He would be constantly watching for her, constantly in danger.

He made a decision before he was even aware he was moving, pulling his sword out of the ground and hefting his shield with practiced speed and skill. He sank into a fighting stance, glaring at Flemeth. "No," he said firmly. Morrigan had stopped, looking at him in shock, and Flemeth, a small smile playing on her lips, raised an eyebrow.

"Alistair…"

"_No, _Morrigan."

"And how do you propose to stop me?" Flemeth said. "Stop me _and_ save your precious family?"

He grimaced and spun to bring his sword to _Morrigan's _neck. Flemeth froze in place. "Remove the song from Ceindrech," he said through gritted teeth. "Or I will kill them _both."_

"Alistair!" Leliana shouted from the ridge. Oghren had staggered back - the darkspawn cowered next to Flemeth, but Alistair caught Morrigan's eyes. She stood stock still, the point of Duncan's sword resting in the pale hollow of her throat. The thought that he might have to use the blade to end her life - hers and his daughters' - made him shout inside, but her eyes were wide and golden and full of fear…

…._and gratitude._

He wanted more than ever to look at Leliana, but he knew if he did his resolve would falter. The chances were very _very _good that once Ceindrech was dead so would he be.

_Maker let it be so._

He kept the sword balanced where it was, trying with all his might not to see Ceindrech's chubby features as he turned his head to meet the gaze of the ancient witch.

"Now, that is _very _interesting," Flemeth said after a moment, her voice perfectly level and conversational. "I do believe you intend to carry out your threat. Killing loved ones must be a family habit."

"The spell," he said tightly. "Perform it now."

The witch tutted and looked down at her hands. "Very well," she said eventually. Power flared and Alistair braced himself, ready for the first sign that she might be tricking them. Instead he caught the faint taste of apples in the back of his mouth and suddenly, completely, the call coming from his daughter was silenced.

"Now, teach the spell to Morrigan," Alistair said.

"It does not need to be performed more than once, young man," she said tartly.

He tightened his lips. "Forgive me if I don't quite believe you," he said. Flemeth rolled her eyes and walked to her daughter, leaning forward and whispering words in her ear. Alistair kept his sword where it was until Flemeth, with a light brush of her lips against her daughter's cheek that caused Morrigan to flinch, stepped back. Alistair raised an eyebrow at Morrigan, who nodded, and he slowly lowered the sword.

"Now what do you propose?" Flemeth said. "Shall you attempt to kill me now, or can an old woman return to her home to die in peace?"

"Killing you would serve no purpose," Morrigan said softly. "And I suspect, would be more dangerous for us all in the long run."

"You have not seen the last of me, Morrigan," Flemeth said, smiling.

"Oh, I believe you, mother. But for the time being…" her eyes flickered to Alistair's, "remember that I am protected."

"Far more than you deserve," the old woman's voice grew fainter as she backed away into the shadows. Alistair saw a blur of movement that he recognised as shapeshifting magic, and she was gone.

The talking darkspawn yowled and scampered after her.


	46. Chapter 46

_You have your father's eyes, _she thought as she looked down at the baby in her arms. Gareth was unusually alert for a baby - or so the midwives kept telling her - but he was a calm child, taking in the world around him with little fuss. She loved her moments with him, brief though they were of necessity while Aedan was away. He seemed to recognise her as well - although it was far too early to tell for sure.

"Eyes change," the midwife had told her, the first time she'd mentioned she thought he looked like his father. "You'll be surprised, your majesty."

She ran a finger over the soft blond down on his head and breathed in his scent. Perhaps he would change, but at least he was hers.

After the wetnurse had taken him she turned her attention back to the pile of papers awaiting her in Aedan's office. The man was meticulous and neat and coming into his workspace was a pleasure, especially after years of dealing with Cailan's unruly messes. Truly, she should never have allowed him anywhere _near _the royal correspondence, save that she had to for his signature and seal on occasion. She'd seriously considered learning to forge it, in the early days, before her father had smilingly informed her that forging the King's signature counted as high treason.

The pang of hurt as she thought of her father was brief. He had died a hero's death, as he always wished. There was a statue to him in the square of Denerim. The people remembered him as the Hero of River Dane or the one who ended the Blight, not the man who plunged Ferelden into civil war.

That honour had been reserved for Alistair.

There was a knock at the door, and Eamon entered, looking troubled. She didn't like the man - never had, despite his relation to Cailan's family. She suspected he blamed Cailan and his father for the death of his sister, even though not even the circle healers had been able to tell what had ailed the Queen. And he made no secret of his dislike for _her_ father, or her for that matter. Now he seemed more inclined to be friendly with her, but she still distrusted him.

"Anora, we need to talk," he said abruptly. She raised her eyebrow at the lack of her title, but said nothing. Eamon would notice it had not pleased her. He always did.

"What is it?"

"Now that Aedan's out of the capital I think it would be prudent to… inform you of some of the rumours that have been circulating…"

She sucked in a breath through her nose. She'd known this conversation would happen. "You mean the rumours of blood magic?" she said. "I thought we'd successfully dispelled them after my public appearance?"

"Anora, you are not so naive as to think one public appearance can achieve so much."

She pressed her lips together. "Of course not, Eamon. It was the _beginning _of our strategy. Surely you realise this?"

Eamon looked uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot. "Anora, the rumours have _gained _momentum. We don't know where they are coming from, but blood magic is on the lips of all the common people. They seem to believe that your little appearance was arranged specifically to fool them."

Anora drew in a breath. That was sophisticated rumour mongering - someone _was _doing this deliberately. They still did not have adequate intelligence in Denerim - her own and Cailan's network had dispersed when the Blight fell on the city and there simply were not enough people of the skills they needed to gather the information they needed.

"What about the Revered Mother?" Anora said. "Aedan was going to ask her to issue a statement…"

Eamon looked even more uncomfortable, if that could be possible. "We have enquired," he said. "She… is unwilling."

Anora felt a flash of intense anger. _"What?"_

"She wishes to have her Templars examine you, your majesty. To be certain there is no evidence of blood magic upon you."

Anora tapped her pen on the table, biting her bottom lip in thought. That sanctimonious, odious woman had never liked her, she remembered the sneer on her lips when she had performed her betrothal ceremony with Cailan. _Common blood. The Queen comes from common blood. No wonder she didn't conceive…_

The ridiculousness of the comments had never failed to inflame her. As if the commoners had _difficulty _having children. It was what they seemed to do best.

"Let her come, but not until Aedan has returned," she said finally. "Let them examine us both and see what they say."

Eamon nodded.

* * *

He had that damn mage with him. She twisted her hands in irritation and something else - the expression on Aedan's face was so coldly furious that she was suddenly afraid - the way she had been that first night they spent together, before he'd awakened a desire in her Cailan, for all his supposed experience, had never managed to tap.

When his eyes lit on her and their son, however, dressed and prettied for his homecoming, they softened. "My Queen," he said formally, bowing and taking her hand to kiss. She felt the familiar electrical jolt of her attraction to him and something in her chest settled. When he turned his attention to their son and gently brushed his lips against the soft skin of his cheek, she had to fight a desire to grin.

"My Prince," she replied, allowing a smile to soften her own expression. She could have imagined it, but she thought she heard a snort come from the mage standing a few feet behind her husband, and she looked up at him. The blond man's face was perfectly bland, however, the eyes dark and distant.

"Let us retire indoors," he said, hooking his arm around hers and jerking his head sharply at the mage to follow them.

To her surprise he took them all to their private sitting room, explaining to a distressed Eamon that he had brought Anders to examine Anora. She felt a surge of rising panic - it wouldn't do, not with the current rumours, to have magic so close to her, but she remembered Aedan saying that his skill in healing was unmatched by Tower mages and the thought that perhaps he might be able to prevent the sheer hell she had been through carrying Gareth to term gave her pause. "Wait, my love," she said. "We need a Templar present, if he is to examine me."

Aedan, to his credit, only gave her a sharp nod.

"Yes, and that will make this _so_ much easier," the mage muttered, not bothering to lower his voice so she and Aedan couldn't hear.

"Shush, Anders," Aedan said sharply. "You're here for a purpose, not to talk."

"As your majesty desires," Anders replied mockingly. Anora frowned at Aedan, who was tight lipped in anger at the mage's tone, but he shook his head minutely. Get it done, she read that expression as meaning. Then we can get rid of him - back to the warden compound and out of our hair.

The mage threw himself into a chair and let one leg hang over its arm - seemingly completely relaxed. "Are you certain this is wise?" she whispered to her husband.

"Your Prince Consort is right, Queen Anora," Anders said - obviously his hearing was better than average. "I am much better than those feckless idiots at the Tower. He wouldn't have brought me otherwise."

"Your attitude leaves a lot to be desired, mage" Anora said, drawing herself up and shifting Gareth in her arms.

"So I've been told," he replied bitterly.

There was a knock at the door and it opened to admit a man in Templar armour. There were several stationed to the palace, and this particular Templar was not one she recognised. Anders sprang to his feet. "Right," he said. "Shall we?"

* * *

"There's nothing you can do?" Anora said. Anders shook his head, and to his credit, looked sympathetic when he did so.

"I'm sorry, your majesty - but it's a well documented condition amongst all women - elves and dwarves as well as humans. Some just react badly to pregnancy. It doesn't mean you'll be any less likely to conceive, though. And there's even a chance it won't happen the next time. Some women only experience it the once."

She bit her lip. She was rapidly approaching thirty - it was quite possible there wouldn't _be _a next time…

_Maker I hope so…_

The thought was traitorous, and it made her flush in shame, but she couldn't un-think it, or bring herself to wish otherwise. The nine months of her pregnancy had, without a doubt, been the worst of her life. She didn't want to admit it, but she had clung to the hope that this mage-warden of Aedan's could solve the problem. That he couldn't only cemented her resolve - she would not go through that again.

Anders stood awkwardly nearby until Aedan waved a hand and dismissed him. The templar fell into step beside the mage, who didn't bother to hide his sneer of dislike at his presence, and she was alone with her husband.

Aedan took her hand and squeezed it. She blinked. "Never mind, my love," she said softly. "At least he seemed certain Gareth was healthy," the wetnurse had come to claim the child as soon as Anders had finished examining him. It was something, she supposed, to know that her babe was strong and hale and whole, despite her _common blood. _"I will cope."

Aedan cupped her chin and tilted her head up to him, gently pressing his lips on her forehead. She was grateful for his presence, but dared not voice her resolve.

"How was your trip otherwise?" she said instead, and felt his grip on her chin tighten before he stepped back, heaving an irritated sigh.

"Unfruitful," he said. "And mystifying. I need the help of the Chantry on this."

"Well, Aedan - I have called for the Revered Mother to attend us tomorrow - you can undoubtably ask her when she arrives."

"Oh?"

He wasn't going to like this. Not at all. "The statement you wished her to issue - she…" she took a breath. "She will not issue it until she has had her templars be certain there is no truth to the rumour of blood magic."

Aedan almost snarled. She clasped her hands in front of her to hide their sudden trembling. "That damned _bitch," _he swore, softly, despite the venom. "Well. She can come and examine you then. If she must."

"She wishes to examine both of us," Anora said. Aedan stopped and looked at her, frowning. A small tendril of fear curled around her heart - she was experienced enough in politics to know that Aedan was hiding something from her. "Is that a problem?"

"Of course not," he snapped, but his eyes were still wary. "It's just that… I am a warden. There are things about the Joining that… require magic. I doubt whether it is Chantry approved."

"Surely your First Warden could reassure her of that?"

His shoulders seemed to relax a little. "Perhaps," he said, then shook himself. "No matter," he patted her shoulder absently. "I shall see you in your quarters later then?"

She smiled, a rush of warmth hitting her belly, and nodded. He bent and kissed her hand before leaving the room.


	47. Chapter 47

Forest edged up to the east wall of Vigil's Keep - a relatively small patch of trees that nonetheless held its share of deer and other wild creatures. Nathaniel rarely found time to visit it, these days, although he had spent much of his adolescence roaming it, ostensibly hunting but often simply observing. He had learned to tread softly on the land, respect it.

He had fled the keep, he freely admitted it. With the departure of Aedan and Anders and the shifting of Avernus back to his basement work room, he had felt almost giddy with relief. The cares of his position still weighed heavily, but the Arldom and the Wardens could be left in the capable hands of Varel and Timon for now. He had collected the Howe bow and dressed himself in his old leathers and escaped.

The tree was still there. He hesitated, but only for a moment, before clambering up into the branches. It was more difficult than he remembered, but he was bigger, and less flexible, he realised. Too much time spent at his desk, not enough time in the practice yard or on patrol. That sort of sloppiness would have gotten him killed in Kirkwall and he made a resolution not to let himself slip so much in the future.

The tingling of another warden approaching an hour later brought him back to his senses. He'd been drifting in memory, thinking of the last time he'd been in this tree, hiding from his father no doubt. This time he was wary, wondering who could be approaching, and was surprised when he saw two figures - Timon and Velanna of all people.

"I fail to see why you have brought me out here," Velanna said, and Nate grinned - the elf's abrasive reaction to humans hadn't lessened and Timon was certainly not the most personable of their wardens.

"You were with the Commander during the incidents with the Mother and the Architect," Timon said. "You're one of the most senior wardens here. I simply wished to…"

"And what of it? The… what do you call it… the _Prince Consort _- seeing as I understand he is no longer the Commander of the wardens at all, left me to rot in the keep while he went and played hero in the city of Amaranthine. If I hadn't used my magic I would have been crushed by a falling _wall _during that siege. I left to find my sister, whom _he _left in the hands of a mad darkspawn to die slowly of the taint and I fail to understand why you're talking to me _at all."_

Nathaniel had to repress a chuckle. Timon was searching for allies - that much was obvious to his politically trained mind. But Velanna had all the political subtlety of a brick and he would get nowhere with her unless he was completely honest.

"I…" Timon was blank faced and shocked in the face of her diatribe. "I am sorry to have wasted your time, Velanna," said, backing away slowly. Velanna crossed her arms over her chest and watched him leave.

"You can come down now, Nathaniel," she said. "I'm sure you found that conversation _highly _amusing."

"How did you know I was here?" he said.

"You make more noise than a bronto," she snorted. "Or maybe my clownish ears give me good hearing."

He snorted and dropped to the ground lightly, in front of her. "You're not still sensitive about that, are you?"

"Considering it took me a month to work out that you'd managed to coordinate your insults with everyone else in the keep, I can't imagine why I would be," she said. "In any case, I brought that smelly fool out here so you could overhear whatever he wanted to tell me. Nathaniel blinked, surprised. "Oh please, Nathaniel. I'm not a twelve year old. I'm aware he's Aedan's contact here."

"You constantly surprise me, m'lady," he said, giving her a mocking bow. When he straightened he caught the edge of a grin on her lips and he felt his heart warm. "Shall we walk back to the keep?"

"Certainly."

"How did you know I was out here in the first place?" Nate asked as they walked.

"I saw you leave," Velanna said shortly.

"Were you _watching _me?"

"Not at all!" she increased her pace. "I happened to be looking out my window when you left. That's all."

He hid a grin.

There was a carriage stationed at the gates when they arrived. Nate frowned. "We weren't expecting visitors…" Varel rushed to him as he passed through the gates.

"Commander, we've been looking for you everywhere. Fergus Cousland is here."

_Maker's Breath._

_

* * *

_

There were similarities between Fergus and Aedan, but they were difficult to spot unless you knew at least one of them well. Fergus' eyes were the same shape, but they were a deeper blue than his brother's, he was taller and more slender, although still powerfully built and obviously a fighter. The coiled grace that Aedan possessed was denied the elder Cousland, however. For all he was a handsome man, Fergus had an air of uncertainty about him. Nate had never cared for any of the Couslands much, but Fergus seemed to have grown some since their last meeting. He smiled wryly to himself, considering that last meeting had been when Nate was no more than seventeen, he guessed he would have to do away with some of his preconceptions.

"Teyrn Cousland, an unexpected pleasure," Nathaniel said as he entered his office.

"Did I interrupt your hunting?" Fergus said, taking in the bow on Nate's back and his leathers.

"No," Nate smiled and hung the bow in its spot behind his desk. "I only just bade goodbye to your brother, ser, it's a shame you missed him."

Fergus tensed and raised an eyebrow. "It's about him that I came."

Nate nodded and sat. Anders had managed to brief him on his meeting with Fergus, through the haze of his anger at Aedan, before he left for Denerim. Nate had been planning on writing to the Teyrn - as his overlord correspondence between them was quite frequent, but he had yet to get to it.

"I guessed as much," Nate said. "What can I do for you?"

"We need to call a landsmeet," Fergus said, pacing the room with his hands clasped behind his back. "We need evidence to bring my brother down. And we need to coordinate our strategy. I came myself in order to be certain that we do this _right, _Nathaniel Howe."

Nate leaned back in his chair. "You would trust me? On the word of a mage? After what my father did?"

"I wish with all my heart I had been the one to kill your father and not my brother," Fergus said, catching Nate's eye with his clear blue one. Nate blinked. The venom in the man's voice was unmistakable, and familiar, and he saw another flash of the relationship between the two brothers. "But I do not hold his crimes against you. I am not so foolish as to think _families _are always cut from the same cloth."

Nate allowed a small smile to touch his lips, and leant forward to place his hands on his desk. "Well then, m'lord Cousland," he said softly. "Where shall we begin?"

* * *

Velanna found him again, in the practice field this time, loosing arrows at targets in grim concentration. The hour he'd spent in the tree earlier that day had been his only respite, and probably would be such for many months to come if their plans came to fruition. A landsmeet required a great deal of preparation, and he would be less and less Nate the Warden Commander for the coming weeks and more and more Nathaniel Howe, Arl of Amaranthine. _That _title, _that _responsibility he had thought lost to him forever.

The irony that he would be working to bring down the very man who had given him back that title did not escape him.

"I never did understand the finer points of archery," Velanna said, standing a few feet behind him. "If the keeper had only let me go with them, the hunts would have been far more successful."

Nathaniel didn't bother to look at her, simply kept his eye on the target. "Oh?" he said.

There was a flare of light and the arrow embedded in the bullseye burst into flame. He chuckled and lowered his bow, turning to see her lowering her hand. "Now, where would the fun in that be, m'lady?" he said.

"Feeding the tribe has little to do with fun," Velanna said. "Had I become keeper we would have used magic for more than just… petty power play."

"Do you still regret it?" he said softly.

"Leaving the clan?" her eyes flashed. "Of course I do. Do you think I'm stupid?"

"No, Velanna. Never that."

"Seranni - before she died - she told me it wasn't my fault," she looked up at him, her mouth twisted in a familiar bitter line. "She was lying to me. If I hadn't left she would never have been taken."

"Perhaps."

"Aren't you going to say something _human _and _compassionate _to try to make me feel better?" she demanded.

"Would it make you feel better?"

"No."

"Then no."

She laughed then. "What did your human lord wish of you?"

"To coordinate a revolution," Nate said simply.

"Oh really?"

He was slightly disappointed that she sounded unimpressed.


	48. Chapter 48

As they left the inn there was a commotion at the gates of the Alienage. Kallian snagged a rather beautiful, red haired elf by the arm as she passed.

"What's happening, Shianni?"

"The royal _arsehole _has returned," she spat back. Zev couldn't resist the grin that spread over his face at the tone, although Otto tutted behind them.

"Shall we take a look, _i miei amici?" _Zevran asked.

"Only if you have a crossbow handy."

"Indulge me, dear ladies. I like to be well informed."

Kallian rolled her eyes but nodded. Otto elected to stay near the venhadal - it wasn't as though he'd be able to see anything any way.

They made their way towards the royal district. Aedan travelled as inconspicuously as possible, usually, but this little trip of his had been different. Zevran knew, especially since the Queen had elected to give her little speech and introduce her son at the same time, that they were fighting against the blood magic rumours he and Kallian had been spreading. Aedan's departure had been a procession - his return needed to be just as grand.

Four horses in front, four behind, the carriage, painted with both the royal _and _the Cousland crest. But it wasn't the finery Zev found interesting. Next to the carriage, stalking like a revenant - was the warden mage, Anders.

"Why is he here?" Zev murmured. Kallian nudged him.

"Had your fun?" she said roughly. "We should get to Otto and sort out his problem."

"Yes. Yes we should."

* * *

The hairs on the back of Zev's neck stood on end as they approached the orphanage. He'd had that feeling before - in the ruins where the werewolves had been.

"Ser Otto," he said softly. "Are you sure you wish to go in there?"

"You feel it, don't you?" Otto said. "There is something evil here. Something that has been infecting the alienage for over a year - possibly longer."

Kallian had her hands on her dagger hilts and was shifting from foot to foot. Obviously she felt it too. "We don't come near here any more," she said. "No one does."

"It does not matter," Otto said. "The evil infects you nonetheless."

"Would it not be better to attempt this with more… help?" Zevran said.

"Andraste will protect us," Otto said. "We do the maker's work."

Kallian caught Zev's eye and he had to repress a grin.

It was full daylight, but the orphanage was dark, and it was cold, and Zevran immediately felt that this had been a bad idea. Otto turned his head from side to side, almost like a mabari sniffing the air. "Spirits, demons…" he muttered. "This is the work of evil men."

"It's definitely creepy," Kallian said, her voice unnaturally loud. Zevran repressed the urge to shush her. He had been in worse places. Although right now it was difficult to remember them.

There was blood on the wooden floor, broken furniture surrounding them, and only patches of light here and there from cracks in the walls. They picked their way carefully forward, guiding Ser Otto, into the first room of the orphanage.

A whimper from behind him made Zev whip round to see the ghostly figure of a boy run past them. Kallian's eyes were round with fear. _"Phantasmi," _Zevran whispered. "Never a good sign."

"Indeed not, my friend," Otto said. "But have no fear. We shall prevail."

"My Templar friend, your confidence is heartening, but I should prefer to rely on skill and not the empty promises of a long departed god."

He pushed open a door to a long corridoor lined with rooms - obviously sleeping quarters for the children, and watched the spirit of the boy race down its centre. There was something not right - more than the general feeling of fear and unease. He slipped forward and tried one of the doors, but it would not open.

"Locked?" Kallian said. "I can help…"

"Not locked," Zev said. The handle simply would not move, as though someone was holding it from the other side. He shivered suddenly, wondering what could do such a thing.

Kallian raised an eyebrow, but they kept walking.

He should have sensed the ambush - should have realised that there was a reason the doors were not opening. When four of them burst from their hinges and what looked like ghostly dogs started attacking them Zevran felt stupid.

He hated feeling stupid.

Otto charged the dogs straight away, despite knowing nothing about them. Zev cursed and leapt in after the Templar, but he was too late. One of the spirit dogs landed on Otto's chest and barreled him over, clamping jaws on his shoulder. Zev sank his daggers into the beast's back, but it seemed to do no good - the thing was made of _spirit _and ordinary weapons were no use.

"We have to pull him back!" he shouted at Kallian, who nodded and raced to his side. They fended off the remaining spirit dogs and pulled Otto backwards through the first doorway, slamming it shut. But it seemed the dogs were not interested in following.

"_Respiro di Dio," _Zevran hissed, holding his hand over the wound on the Templar's neck. "We need a healer. Kallian, _mio caro_ you stay here and keep pressure on the wound."

"Where are you going?" Kallian said, her voice high and indignant.

"To see a friend," he said, and slipped away.

* * *

The guard at the warden compound looked him over as though he were a piece of meat. Zevran didn't have time to argue with him, simply stated what he needed, together with the code word Nathaniel had given him and stood, waiting for them to comply. The code worked, and the guard's eyes widened before he ran inside to fetch the mage Anders.

When the mage arrived Zev noted the slump of his shoulders and the lack of his regular grin, but had no time to go into it.

"You need help?" Anders asked.

"In the alienage. Please, we need to hurry."

Anders nodded and waved a hand, casting haste. Zev grinned, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline he remembered from Wynne, and they both took off at a run.

Anders hesitated when he saw the body, but to his credit, only for a second. The healing magic he brought forth closed the wound and he worked for several more minutes. Otto was pale, but by the time the mage had finished colour had come back to his cheeks and he was breathing easily.

"He'll need to rest a moment," Anders said. "But he should be fine."

"Thank you, Anders."

A ghost of the mage's old grin flashed on his face, and he pointed to Zev's face. "It worked well, didn't it?"

"Indeed, my friend," Zev said.

"What _is _this place? And what happened? The veil is so thin here…"

Kallian stood with her arms crossed over her chest. It was obvious she didn't trust the human, but that shouldn't have surprised Zev as much as it did. He supposed he was used to thinking of mages as different to the rest of the human population - something she would never have learned, not in the alienage.

"We're not certain," Zevran said. "We needed the help of Ser Otto here, and accompanying him to the orphanage was his payment."

"And nearly his death. What attacked you? That looked like a dog bite…"

"Ghosts," Zev said. "Spirits."

Anders' grin widened. "And you didn't bring a mage with you? Really? Templars aren't much chop against the arcane," he nudged Otto's still form with a toe, but gently. "Just arcane _users."_

"Are you offering to help us, Anders?" Zev said.

The mage shrugged. "It'll pass the time," he said. "I'm heading back to the keep tomorrow."

Otto stirred and sat up. Zev gave Anders a grateful look as he bent to his patient again.

"Hey, hey, easy there, Ser Templar," Anders said, putting his hand on Otto's forehead.

"Mage?" the blind man said. "You healed me?"

"Yes. Thank you is the _usual _response."

"Ah. Anders, isn't it?"

"You know me?"

"I tracked you once. You probably don't remember. I was not blind at the time."

Anders waved a hand dismissively. "Everyone's had a go," he said.

"Let's go," Kallian said impatiently.

The addition of Anders made their job far easier. Spirits and demons, demons and spirits. Ser Otto had learned from his experience, and kept back while they dealt with the constant attacks.

In the final room - which was splattered with blood from roof to floor, Anders held them all back.

"This is the centre," he said, moving forward and scooping up a wicked looking pitchfork from the floor. "Whatever happened, it happened here."

Zev agreed, silently. It felt like something was watching them, the menace was almost tangible.

"Sodding tits of Andraste!" Anders shouted suddenly, as the pitchfork in his hands seemed to take on a life of its own. There was a flare of magic from his hands and it burst into flames, reduced to ashes and a puddle of melted metal in a manner of seconds. When the demon emerged, moments later, the battle was joined.

"I must thank you," Ser Otto said.

Zevran smiled at the Templar. Kallian was still scowling, but Anders was grinning, leaning against a wall with his arms folded over his chest. He had indeed, been invaluable during the fight, keeping the bulk of the demons at bay while they hacked at the most powerful of them. Kallian, however, was wide eyed and panting by the end, and Zevran knew she was close to panic. This was far, far beyond her experience. He hoped she was strong enough to cope.

"There is still the matter we asked you about, Ser Otto," Zevran said. "Are you still willing to hel p?"

"Most certainly," Otto replied. "Where is this warehouse?"

Anders raised an eyebrow. "What are you up to, Zevran Aranai?"


	49. Chapter 49

Anders probably would have flirted with the elven girl, in any other situation. She was quite delectable - in an incredibly fierce way. Little tell tale signs from Zev made him think it was probably a bad idea, and truly, his heart wasn't in it, not right now. Trying to keep himself from strangling Aedan at the palace - dealing with the haunts in the orphanage, and now traveling next to a sodding _Templar _- they were all distracting enough. Despite the fact that Otto seemed… well quite a decent sort. He didn't remember being captured by the man - but then he was quite young - it was possible he'd simply been one of the many faceless bastards who'd stuck his boot in on the way back.

Or, to be charitable, maybe he'd been one of the few who hadn't. There had been a couple.

"Can mages detect blood magic too?" Kallian asked, a little shyly. Anders gave her a warm smile, one of his less flirtatious ones - the one he reserved for older ladies _like Francesca _and shook his head.

"Not exactly," he said. "We can feel it being cast, but we wouldn't be able to do what Otto here can do, and tell if it's been used in the area before. Not unless the blood magic has weakened the veil."

"Which it often does," Otto said. Kallian was leading him as they walked through the Alienage, led by Zevran, who knew where they were going. "Blood magic is inherently evil, it attracts demons far more readily than normal magic. The residual life force from blood is like…"

"…the best meal you've ever eaten, to a demon," Anders said. "Especially if it's from a mage. And I'd take issue with you saying that it's inherently evil, Ser Templar, but I know it'd be a fruitless argument."

"Is it true that the Wardens do not forbid blood magic?" Otto asked.

"It's true."

"Are you a blood mage?"

Anders glared at the man for a few seconds before he realised it was pointless to glare at someone who couldn't see you. "No," he said.

"Lack of opportunity rather than a moral objection, my tall friend?" Zevran said. Anders shot him a look.

"I don't like blood magic," Anders said, wincing internally. _I truly, truly don't. _"If blood magic didn't exist, neither would the Tower."

"That's an oversimplification, surely," Zevran said.

"Have you been talking to Nathaniel?" Anders said. "It's not an oversimplification. People aren't afraid of abominations setting fire to their village. We've got _darkspawn. _That happens _any way. _What they're afraid of is…"

"…that someone will take over their mind," Kallian finished in a small voice. Anders looked at her, and his lips twitched. She was a sharp one. Zevran was looking at the elf girl as well, his eyes appraising, thoughtful.

"Exactly," Anders said. "Flaming death is something too big - too impersonal for someone to be afraid of every single day of the week. But the thought that you might be doing something against your will… _that _is insidious and terrible. More than that - it threatens people who are in power. And so people who are in power react against it, and the next thing you know you've made an entire sector of the population - innocent of anything save an unfortunate chance of _birth - _into prisoners…"

"Mages aren't prisoners!" Otto said.

"Chantry indoctrination works _very well _on Templars," Anders snarled.

"It is not just blood mages who are possessed, young man," Otto said, evenly.

"It's not just _mages _who are possessed, Ser Templar," he snapped back.

"Enough!" Zevran said. "Truly, I had thought the two of you above bickering. We have a job to do."

Anders let out his breath. A job, yes. One that might bring down Aedan. He had to focus on that.

"This is the place," Zevran said. An old building - more sturdy than most of the ramshackle structures dotted around the Alienage. Deserted, but that was not really very surprising, given what the Denerim elven population had been suffering lately.

They slipped into the warehouse.

Anders' senses prickled immediately and he glanced at Ser Otto, who's head had lifted as he seemed to taste the air. "The veil is thin," Anders said. "But not torn as far as I can tell."

"It didn't happen here," Zevran said softly.

"You were with him?" Anders said.

Zevran shook his head. "No. The other warden was, however. He told me what happened."

Anders let Kallian and Otto go ahead, but caught Zevran's arm. "The _other _warden?" he said. "That was….."

Zevran chuckled. "Indeed it was, Anders. You met him, at the Vigil. Do you not remember?"

"Maker's _arse! _With the gorgeous women and the baby? _That's _King Maric's bastard? I thought he was executed?"

"The dark haired lady with the baby decided he needed rescuing," Zevran said.

Anders remembered the conversation he'd had with the hesitant, soft spoken fellow, then with a blow it hit him what Maric's son's survival could _mean._

"Sweet Holy Andraste, Zevran. We can bring him _down…"_

"Patience, my magical friend," Zevran said. "It will not be that simple. We need _evidence. _And Maric's son he may be, but the people believe him to be the traitor who sent Ferelden into civil war. I do not think he would be welcomed into his father's city with open arms."

"By the elves he sodding would be."

"This is not the time, Anders," Zevran.

They made their way to the room Zevran was looking for. There were no traces of fighting, no bodies or weapons, but the further they got into the warehouse the worse Anders felt. Prickles under his skin that reminded him of the Baronness in the Blackmarsh - definite traces of blood magic.

When they reached the final room - pushed through one of the double doors, he almost retched. Controlling himself, looking across at Otto, he knew the Templar could sense the same thing. Life force had been spilled here and demons were clawing at the veil with all their might. Their whispering voices were worse - _far _worse than the plaintive, sad voices of the demons who had made it through the veil at the orphanage - worse even than the rage demons who couldn't push past that small building to the delectable morsels beyond. These were full strength, raging, lustful and determined, battering at the veil where it was thinnest, trying with all their might to get through.

He hesitated at the doorway, feeling for the first time in his relatively short life the true danger inherent in his abilities.

"What is it, my friend?" Zevran voice came from close to his elbow. He looked down at the elf, swallowing.

"Ever been fishing?" he said.

"I have had the dubious pleasure," Zevran said.

"You know when you through a bit of bait into the water, just to see if there are fish about? Encourage them to come to you?"

"Indeed."

"At the moment, I feel like the bait."

"Do not fear, Anders," Otto's voice was strong and had that special Templar self righteousness that Anders was sure the Chantry gave lessons on. "I shall be vigilant."

"If by vigilant you mean you'll cut my head off as soon as I look at you wrong, I'd prefer if you were a bit lax, thanks," he said, then turned back to Zev. "We don't need to stay here," he said. "It's obvious blood magic was cast here. A large spell. It used… many lives."

"Indeed, you are correct, Ser Mage," Otto said.

"And would the two of you be willing to testify to that?" Zev said.

"No need to ask me twice," Anders said. "I doubt they'd take my word though. You'd be better off using Ser Otto, here."

"Indeed. But it is good to have confirmation."

"I don't see how it helps you," Kallian was saying. "All you've managed to prove is that blood magic was performed here. There were Tevinter _slavers _here for months. Of course they would have used blood magic."

"Ah, but we have a witness to what happened here," Zevran said. "A somewhat… unreliable one, however, which is why I wished to gain confirmation from our Templar associate. But a witness nonetheless."

"I thought you said the Cousland had gotten rid of everyone who was with him when this happened?" Kallian said.

"Oh he thinks he did," Zevran said, smiling a little.


	50. Chapter 50

Alistair couldn't help the grin of delight as he saw his daughter move on the blanket they had set down for her. It was night - near time for sleep, and the tiny girl was on her stomach, pulling herself forwards with short, jerky movements, determined to get to the piece of dried fruit her mother had laid for her. Morrigan too, seemed enthralled, with a small smile playing over her lips.

He felt fingers on his shoulders and then a pointed chin, Leliana's breath tickling his ear. "Happy?"

He turned his head and kissed her nose, breathing in her scent. "I'm not certain," he said. "It's difficult to tell."

"We'll reach Amaranthine in two days," she said. "What will you do then?"

He took a deep breath and shifted on the log so he was facing her. "That depends on you," he said.

"And on Morrigan," Leliana said.

"No," Alistair heaved a sigh. "No, not on Morrigan. She's made it clear she won't be tied to the wardens, to one place. Not with Ceindrech. And she's right - she needs to be on the move, with Flemeth still around."

Leliana's face fell. "But…"

He reached out and cupped her cheek. Morrigan gave them a look, then shrugged and gathered up Ceindrech, moving off to her tent. "She's promised me I will always be able to find them. Truly, Leliana, I'm…" _not happy about it. Never that. But…_

"You could go with them," she said, looking down. "The wardens would let you go, I'm sure. Nathaniel would. He was willing to…"

Alistair pressed his thumb to her lips, stopping her speech, smiling sadly. "I truly, _truly _don't want to be following Morrigan around for the rest of my life, Leliana. These past few months have been hard enough."

"She's your daughter, Alistair."

"And I'll see her. I've Morrigan's word on that. As often as I want to - as often as I can. But I don't want to live with Morrigan, Lelli," he gave a short bark of a laugh. "Maker's breath, I don't. The two years I had to spend with her during the Blight were more than enough."

He shifted and let her settle against his chest, his arm around her waist, and they stared at the fire for a time.

"So. The Wardens then," Leliana said.

"Lelli, it truly does depend on you. I will always be a warden, no matter where I am, but I wouldn't ask that you be the same."

"You… want me to decide?"

He squeezed her waist. "Think about it, love," he said softly. "I don't care where I am, so long as you're there too."

* * *

The Keep was busy when they arrived. Nathaniel was directing supplies to be loaded into a cart when they approached.

"Alistair! Thank the maker."

"Commander," Alistair broke into a grin. "It's good to see you."

"Even better to see you, my friend," Nathaniel said, grasping his hand and pumping it firmly. "I've just had a letter for you from Denerim. We need your help, urgently."

"For what?"

"Fergus Cousland is calling a landsmeet. We're going to depose Aedan."

Alistair's heart clenched tight and he suddenly found it hard to breathe. He _felt _the presence of his father's sword, wrapped in their combined gear, as though it were a living thing.

"Nate, you didn't…" he took a shuddering breath. "Tell me you didn't tell him about me."

The rogue gave him a sympathetic look but shook his head. "No, Alistair, I didn't. But I'm afraid we're going to need you all the same."

"No," Leliana's voice was firm and proud and Alistair felt as though a beam of sunlight had hit his back, warming him thoroughly. "Nathaniel, you cannot put Alistair forward as a claimant. Not again. Not after what happened last time."

"Andraste's ashes, Alistair, I'm sorry!" Nate looked shocked, and shook his head vigorously. "No, that's not the plan at all. In fact… Fergus has outlined some very specific conditions for this to work."

Alistair felt his knees go weak with relief. "You don't know how relieved I am to hear you say that, Nate."

"Pike-twirler would make a terrible King, Commander," Oghren said. "He's too sodding nice."

Nate smiled, a brief flash of white teeth. "Don't worry, Alistair. The wardens conscripted you from the Chantry, and the wardens will always keep you. You have nothing to fear in that regard."

"So what is this plan?"

* * *

In his quarters, that night, the quarters that Nate assured him would be _his _once they got back from Denerim (and how good it felt, to have a home finally after nearly three years of wandering) he laid out Maric's sword on the bed and looked at it. He wasn't entirely convinced things weren't going to go terribly wrong, and almost smiled to think that he'd decided that _terribly wrong _meant he ended up on his father's throne. But there was a plan, and Aedan would be removed.

"You're worried," Lelli's voice was hard and he remembered what she had been, before the Chantry.

"Who wouldn't be?" he said, turning to her. She never failed to make him lose his breath, but tonight she was even more beautiful, the candlelight making her skin dusky and golden against the locks of her bright hair. "But we've got a chance in this, to make things… well if not right, then better. Aedan has to go."

"He does."

"I…" he looked at his hands for a moment, then back at her. "Lelli I love you." Her eyes widened and she blinked. "I don't know if I've told you that often enough lately."

A smile started to spread over her face and she stepped towards him. He met her halfway, pulling her close, crushing her to his chest and finding her lips with his own. His hands tangled in her hair as he tilted her head up towards his, wanting more contact, more of _this _always. She answered with as much passion as he gave, her arms winding around his chest and her body pressed against him.

They backed towards the bed. He fumbled behind him and pushed Maric's sword off, letting it clatter to the floor as she clambered on top of him, tugging at his shirt, his breeches, planting kisses on his cheeks, his neck, his lips. His hands reached up under her shirt to find her breasts, drawing a gasp from her as he found the nipples.

Clothes were discarded and he pressed her down onto the bed, dipping his head to taste her skin and breathe her scent. She was so beautiful, he was constantly amazed she was willing to be with him, willing to let him touch her…

Oh, but she enjoyed it. He knew that too. He ran his fingers down her sides and let one hand drift between her thighs, finding her desire matched his own. Her head tilted back and her eyes closed as he explored her and he felt his own breath coming more quickly.

"Alistair…" she murmured. He obeyed her unspoken request and shifted position to sink into her, keeping his eyes open to watch her face as that searing heat engulfed him. It took all his self control not to power into her, more not to come undone immediately, but he wanted to hold onto this moment, feel her around him and under him, remember that they had made a _choice, _that they were here because they wanted to be, not because Eamon or Aedan or Duncan or _anyone _had made decisions for them. He was his own person, now, here, with her, and they could take what pleasure they could when they wanted to, not when it was dictated by others.

As he moved within her and watched her gasping and sighing under him he felt a stronger pull than the pull of his body, a pull towards completion that wasn't simply physical. When she tightened around him and cried his name he bent his head and claimed her mouth, kissing her completely and thoroughly as he spent himself inside her, the overwhelming burst of pleasure whiting out thought and reason.

He collapsed on her, letting his weight rest for a moment before lifting his head and kissing her closed eyelids.

"I love you Alistair," she said softly. He smiled against her neck.

"You sound sad about that," he said.

"Do I? I am sorry! It's just that… after Marjolane… I wasn't sure if this could happen for me again. And I am…"

"What?"

"I am frightened for you," she stroked his hair back from his face, letting her hand rest on his cheek, her blue eyes full of concern. "This is a risk you are taking, this plan of Fergus Cousland's. What if they will not let you go?"

He frowned and shifted away from her, looking up at the ceiling. She settled into the crook of his arm, letting her fingers trail over the hair on his chest. "No matter what Aedan is, he is still a warden," Alistair said finally. "Much as he might hate to admit it. When he gave Command of the order to Nathaniel, he put Nate in authority over him. It's a technicality, but it might be enough to help pull this off."

"This will anger a lot of people," she said. "A _lot _of people. I do not know if Nathaniel or Fergus have the support they need to make it work."

"They will have, if I'm there."

"Is it worth it, Alistair? Whatever else he's done, Aedan has brought Ferelden forward out of the Blight."

He felt a flare of his old anger. "The cost was too high," he said. "He could have done things differently."

"And yet the Archdemon is dead."

"As I said," Alistair squeezed her tighter against him. "He's a warden. He was never suited for the position he's taken. Neither am I."

"I hope you are right, Alistair."

_So do I, _he thought.


	51. Chapter 51

_Last Chapter, Epilogue to follow, probably tomorrow. I hope everyone has enjoyed the journey. And I hope you like the end!_

* * *

Aedan slammed his hands on the table in barely controlled fury. "What do you mean you've called a landsmeet?"

"Aedan it is my right as Teyrn," Fergus said, his calm tone infuriating Aedan even more.

"_Why?"_

"There are several issues that need to be resolved," Fergus said, but he was skirting an issue, Aedan knew his brother too well not to notice. "Not the least your handling of the elven alienage."

"Maker's breath, brother don't tell me you've picked _now _to be an advocate of elven rights!"

"I may not have, but the banns under my command are the ones who have to deal with increasing unrest in their towns. The elves in Ferelden form the basis of much of our manual labour, Aedan, surely you can appreciate in a country recovering from a blight how important those workers are?"

"I'm not stupid, Fergus."

His brother's mouth pressed into a hard line. "Then stop acting that way."

"Tell me why you're calling this landsmeet then," Aedan said, coldly. "And don't spout bullshit at me. You're not here to stand for the rights of elves."

"I won't lie to you, brother," Fergus sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry that it has come to this. But the landsmeet is going to depose you."

"_What?"_

"You have one chance. Before the landsmeet is called, to step down."

The fury that was burning through him now was so white hot that it was impossible for Aedan to think. He couldn't move, or speak for a few moments. "Why, by the tits of Andraste, would I do such a thing?" he asked finally, surprised that the words came out evenly.

"Aedan, there's strong evidence of you using unconventional means to defeat the blight."

"Would you like me to _unkill _the archdemon?" Aedan snarled.

Fergus waved a hand. "That is the least of your problems. There's evidence of you slaughtering civilians without cause at Vigil's keep. There's evidence of wardens sent _by you_ to be experimented on by a blood mage. And, finally, there's evidence of you using blood magic."

He saw nothing but red. When he came to Fergus was against the wall with Aedan's elbow in his throat. His brother's blue eyes were wide with fear, yet he made no sound. _"Who?"_

"Aedan," a familiar voice, without its usual jovial tone, but pitched exactly at a level designed to infuriate him. He spun around. The beard and the hair were different, but there was no mistaking him.

"You're _dead."_

"So I've been told."

Aedan glanced at his brother, then at the man he'd ordered killed, and narrowed his eyes. "This doesn't help you, Fergus," Aedan said. "Alistair cannot take the throne. The Landsmeet will never back the traitor of Ferelden."

"I have no intention of taking the throne," Alistair said. His demeanor, his voice, his _stance _was so different to the Alistair Aedan remembered that he almost stepped back.

"Without a claimant, the Landsmeet won't depose me," Aedan said. "Even you know that Alistair - after what happened last time."

"We have a claimant," Fergus said. "And I think you'll agree they're a good one."

Aedan cocked an eyebrow.

"Will you listen to what we are offering Aedan? You might not find it as distasteful as you think."

"I see no reason not to kill this traitor on the spot, brother," Aedan said, laying his hand on the hilt of his dagger.

"You'd have a hard time explaining that one away," Alistair pointed out, with a ghost of his old grin. "Eamon would probably like to know what the bloodstains on the carpet were about, even if you did manage to get rid of my body. And there are two of us."

"And I could never beat you," Aedan finished the sentence, feeling defeat crushing on him from all sides.

Alistair smirked. "No, you never could. Except when it really mattered to me."

"You can step down and we won't bring the evidence against you in an open Landsmeet, Aedan," Fergus said. "You can simply say the Wardens have called you back to Weisshaupt. You took up a duty that cannot be foresworn."

"It was _forced _on me, brother."

"If you refuse, we will have no choice but to declare Alistair a claimant and publicly disgrace you. You will be executed. Anora will be imprisoned and your son will be exiled."

"Ferelden will fall if you do this," Aedan said. "Orlais is poised on the brink of retaking us, and no I am _not _being paranoid, brother. We need leadership."

"Your wife is perfectly capable of handling it, Aedan," Alistair said. "She was handling things long before you."

"You would leave her in charge? Let… let my son inherent after her?"

Fergus nodded, as did Alistair. "Anora is respected and loved by the people, Aedan."

"You, though, are not," Alistair added.

"You're bluffing," Aedan said, pointing at Alistair. "I _know _you don't want the throne, no matter what you said after I spared Loghain."

"I don't," Alistair said. "But I will take it if I have to. And I think you won't make me."

He glared at his fellow warden. Alistair was so calm, so measured. They were right. The evidence was too strong.

"What I did… I did it because it was _right," _Aedan spat finally. "You are punishing me for saving Ferelden. If I hadn't done what I had done, the Blight would still be raging across Thedas, and you know it, Alistair. _Brother. _You both know it. You are doing this to spite me, not because it will help Ferelden."

"Just because you believe it was right doesn't make it so," Fergus said.

"And who's to say what would have happened?" Alistair said. "If you hadn't poisoned the ashes, maybe we could have used them to cure Blight sickness. If you hadn't let Bhelen have the Anvil, maybe the dwarves wouldn't have rushed in to retake the Thaigs. And truly, we can forgive you most of it, Aedan. But murdering a warehouse full of elves for your own power? Not even Loghain would have done that, Aedan. Not even _Howe."_

"You think that if it makes you feel better, Alistair," Aedan snarled.

"Believe me, Aedan, it doesn't."

* * *

The Landsmeet Chamber had never been a place of dread for him before. But standing next to Anora, knowing what was to come, he wondered if things could have been different. If Alistair had taken the throne, would he be standing where Aedan was now?

Anora had refused to meet his eyes when they'd come to her. He was shocked at how much it hurt, knowing that her feeling for him could be so completely erased. But Fergus had told her everything before coming to Aedan. There had been no chance to prepare her against it, no chance to find some way to convince her it had been necessary _even though it had been necessary._

Avernus. Alistair. Zevran. That blind Templar and the white haired elf-girl - _Maker damn her and her kind. _He was surprised they hadn't called Wynne back from the circle to spout moralistic bullshit at them all.

His fists were clenched. He wished he could lash out, at something, _someone, _but it would be pointless.

Fergus took the dais. "My fellow Lords and Ladies of the Landsmeet, I have sad news."

* * *

Nathaniel and Anders fought in the warden compound. Aedan found he didn't care. The mage warden eventually had to be ordered to go back to Amaranthine and told to stay there. From the way Anders glared at him Aedan didn't think Nathaniel would be able to keep him there long. He wondered vaguely if the man would try to hunt him down. Part of him hoped he would. There would be some small satisfaction in wringing the man's smug neck for him.

Nathaniel had arranged a ship to take Aedan to Orlais with a contingent of Orlesian wardens. From there he'd be accompanied all the way to Weisshaupt. The First Warden, it seemed, did have a lot to discuss with Aedan, not the least Avernus' research. The ancient warden mage would be going with him, another bone of contention for Anders.

It seemed Aedan wasn't the only one for whom things were going wrong.

He was allowed to say goodbye to Gareth, although Anora hovered nearby as though she were afraid he would contaminate her by his very presence. His heart clenched, finding he would miss her more than he had thought possible.

As it was, his son's blue gaze and chubby fists were almost enough to reduce him to tears.

Almost.

Anora would be queen. His son would inherit the throne. These things would have to be compensation enough.

On ship as he watched the city he had thought of as his for too short a time, his thoughts swirled. There was no revenge he could take that wouldn't harm his son's standing. Fergus and Nathaniel had effectively cut out any other options. He had been locked into this from the day Duncan saved him from the ruins of Highever.

He railed against the injustice of it.

It was all he could do.


	52. Epilogue

Seasons turned. Ten years passed, then twenty. The Free Marches erupted into war, and there were rumours of a blond apostate and his accomplice forcing the Chantry's hand. Ferelden had remained steady, however, under the rule of Queen Anora, and held its own against the tide of fighting. The wardens had helped, under the capable hand of Nathaniel Howe, and things eventually settled back… if not to normal, then at least to a place where the people of Thedas could continue to live out their lives, mostly unmolested. The world had changed, yes, but some things would forever stay the same.

Orzammar had faced many trials in the thirty years since the fifth blight. Bhelen's reforms had done a lot to bolster the flagging population, but simmering resentment against former casteless was still a cause for unease and unrest. Still, though, it was the place where wardens came for their Calling. Even the Amaranthine wardens made the trek to Orzammar. Sometimes traditions were worth upholding.

This warden, however, arrived with no ceremony, no others of his kind. He showed no obvious signs of the taint, either, but simply set up camp at the entrance to the deep roads. He was not short of coin, but he consumed little, his spare frame and sharp features taking in all who arrived in the city.

The guards ignored him after a time, although he paid one to give him news of any other wardens who arrived for their Callings.

A tall, greying, heavily built warden, accompanied by two women, one red haired and one wheat-blond with piercing yellow eyes, arrived at the gates of Orzammar the midwinter after the man had set up his vigil at the entrance to the deep roads. The man embraced both women at the entrance and spoke earnestly to them for a time, before turning away. The two women watched him leave, clasping hands, before the red-haired woman turned her head into the shoulder of the other and wept.

It was an uncommon enough occurrence, with wardens, that they be accompanied by family. Most wardens came alone, or with other wardens. Wardens with families were few and far between, now more than ever. This warden - he seemed familiar to some of the residents of Orzammar, but it was not commented on, at least, not openly. He was treated to a night of honour at Tapsters, in which he participated eagerly enough, before shouldering his sword and shield and setting off for the inevitable end of all Grey Wardens. He seemed cheerful enough, less dour than most of his kind, although he glanced once at the giant double doors that led to the surface with a kind of longing, before turning his back on the outside world for the last time.

One shopkeeper noted that the warden stopped at the entrance to the deep roads and spoke with the man who sat there, leaning on the hilt of his sword, for quite some time. He could not hear what they said, although the conversation seemed amicable enough. He was quite surprised, however, when the two men clasped hands and walked into the deep roads together.

No one saw either of them again.

He approached the dark entrance with little trepidation. The deep roads held little fear for him now, not with the Calling seething in his blood. He knew it was a different feeling to that which Duncan felt, all those years ago, but he still felt a connection to his old mentor, knowing he was going to the death that Duncan had always believed he would have. He had left Duncan's sword with Leliana. There was no need for it to be lost and forgotten in the deep roads, when there were plenty of other blades just as deadly and less beloved.

When he noticed the figure sitting with his arms resting on his knees he recognised him immediately. Despite the years that had separated them, he had seen this man sitting just so too many times not to realise immediately who it was. He huffed a breath of surprise, although truly, he shouldn't have been. It made perfect sense that things should come full circle like this.

He unhooked his sword from his back and clasped it point down in front of him, looking down at the bent head and waiting.

"Alistair," Aedan said, looking up into his face. "I've been waiting for you."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me."

Aedan looked haggard. More so than he would have expected. The usually meticulously neat blond hair was ragged around the brow, pulled back messily from his stubbled face. He was clean and well equipped, but Alistair could see the man had been living rough for some time now.

The grin that crossed the man's features held more humanity in it than Alistair had ever seen. "When you get to our age, in our job, there is very little that can surprise us, I suppose," he said. Alistair was forced to smile in agreement.

"Did you want to try ending our Calling out here?" Alistair said. "The dwarves will probably let us go at it without interfering. We can see if the wardens have managed to keep you up to standards."

"No. That's not why I'm here," Aedan sighed and looked to the side. "I've had word, periodically. Of Ferelden. And Gareth. And even you, from time to time. The Anderfels is a long way Alistair, but I gathered what news I could."

"I can't imagine what it must have been like, to be so far from your son," Alistair said.

A twist of the lips reminded Alistair of the old Aedan, the ruthless one, the man they had spent so much effort breaking. "No, I don't suppose you could."

"Why were you waiting for me, Aedan?" Alistair said. "If not to try to kill me. Why not go to your Calling alone?"

"I thought we might make this final stand together," Aedan said.

Alistair blinked. _This _he had not seen coming. "For the sake of the Maker, _why?"_

Aedan fingered the hilt of the sword that lay on the ground next to him. It was the Cousland sword, the one he'd carried all through the Blight, the one he'd plunged into the heart of Rendon Howe in the basement of the Arl of Denerim's estate.

"It seemed fitting," Aedan said finally. "I don't pretend to agree with what you did, and I never expect you to agree with me, I'm not that stupid. But we fought together for two years, you and I. I still think that means something."

Alistair raised an eyebrow. With all that had happened, in the past twenty years, he could understand what made a man like Aedan believe in what he did as _right. _People had done so many worse things, since that warehouse in the back streets of Denerim, in causes that they believed were worth more than the people's lives they destroyed. And in the end, Aedan had stopped the Blight. Alistair supposed if he knew then what he knew now, he may have let Aedan keep the power he so desperately wanted.

Then again, he might not.

"You're right," Alistair said. "I don't have to agree with you." He replaced his sword and held out his hand to help Aedan to his feet.

"And I will never agree with you," Aedan said, taking his hand and heaving himself up.

Alistair smiled a grim smile and nodded at his fellow warden. "Let's go get ourselves killed," he said.

* * *

_Author's Note: That's the end. Thank you all very much for reading and giving me feedback, it's been another great journey, one that I hope I get to take over and over again with many new fics! Blood Wound will continue and bleed into Saoirse and Anders in DA2, but I believe this universe is done now. Farewell Aedan, it was a joy to hate you and love you and put you through horrors!_


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